Where We Will Always Love You
by Tales of Midnight
Summary: James Potter would have died for his wife and son. He would have done anything to keep them safe. But when they had needed him, he hadn't been there. Now, Harry, at fifteen, has grown up without a mother, with a reputation that can only wear him down, and with a certain interest in a certain Slytherin boy
1. Prologue: Recollect

**Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. That belongs to J.K. Rowling, who created the Harry Potter world. I simply twisted things around a bit, and so nothing you know recognize is mine. I take no ownership, and I am only writing this for fun.**

**Author's note: **so, the AU here is that James survived that night and went on to raise Harry (I do believe this will bring on some characters changes, but I'll try not to make more than the plot calls for. Or as many as I can keep from doing. I've mentioned before I'm not good at fan fiction), along with Sirius and Remus. Also, I need to throw in my OTP, so this'll be Draco x Harry, too. I would appreciate any reviews, follows, and favourites, too (wink, wink). Anyway, please enjoy this prologue of sorts!

**Prologue: Recollect**

_"__No, not Harry!" Lily pleaded. "I'd rather die than let you kill Harry!"_

_The man before her took a tone of disgust. "Then you shall." He raised his wand. "_Avada Kedavra_!"_

_Lily screamed as green struck her squarely in the chest, and fell to the floor, the collision echoing grotesquely throughout the nursery. But this noise did not cover Harry's wailing, which had began when his mother had raised her normally calm, serene voice. Being only fifteen months old, Harry could hardly understand what was happening. The only thing that really seemed to click within his mind was the fact that his mummy was not speaking any longer and the scary man who had attacked Lily was now advancing on him._

_With another blinding flash of green, the curse hit Harry and bounced back at its caster, leaving Harry seeing only dark._

_It was a few hours later that James Potter arrived back home with Sirius. When they came upon the scene, James's only reaction was shock._

_"__Lily," he whispered, sitting on the floor of the nursery with a thump._

_Sirius took one look at his best friend so shocked to see his dead wife and said, "James, look . . ."_

_James, slowly, brought his eyes up to meet Sirius's. Sirius, with a shaky finger, pointed to the cradle in which Harry sat. The infant, while obviously sleeping, was breathing and quite alive._

_"__Harry's all right, James," Sirius said quietly. "He's all right. Just asleep, James."_

_"__Lily . . . ," James said again, as if Sirius hadn't noticed her._

_Sirius looked pained for a moment, before he gently lifted Harry out of the cradle. He sat down next to the man he'd known for ten years, had lived with for two, and had named Sirius godfather of his firstborn child. This was his best friend, and never before had he seen James's hazel eyes look so glassed over with emotion._

_"__Harry," James murmured, turning to face his son. "You're okay, Harry . . ."_

_"__Dumbeldore needs to know," Sirius told James. "He needs to know what's happened . . ."_

_"__I . . . I can't just leave her here, Sirius."_

_"__I know. I would ask you to for long, James. But we need to think about Harry, James. He's in danger."_

_Sirius, too, had been shocked to see Lily Potter on the ground, a lifeless heap. Their lovely Lily, the brightest witch Sirius had ever met. Their charming, daring Lily. She'd always been so strong, so smart. And now she'd been taken out in one last stand to protect her son, whom she loved very much._

_"__I trust you, Sirius," James said, glancing again at his best friend. "Take Harry, contact Dumbledore . . . I'll be here when you come back. I promise."_

_Sirius looked uncertainly towards James, but agreed. James wouldn't want to lose his emotions in front of him, and he surely felt a desperate need to cry. He'd fancied Lily in their fifth year, and they'd fallen in love two years later. James surely wouldn't be able to handle this loss well. There would be no worse thing to lose than his wife, except maybe their son._

_Their son. Sirius looked down to the young boy in his arms, and felt a large pang of sadness. Harry would have a difficult life ahead of him, without a doubt. Sirius hoped, with everything he had, that he would be there to help his godson through it all._

_Within minutes of contacting the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore had arrived with McGonagall. Sirius led them back upstairs, after briefly explaining how Peter had been the Potters' Secret-Keeper, not Sirius, to where James stroked Lily's hair, looking more wrecked than when Sirius had left._

_McGonagall gasped sharply at the sight, whereas Dumbledore only appeared saddened. His blue eyes had lost their normal twinkle as he gazed at James holding his dead wife._

_James glanced up at the two professors, and he looked up apologetically to McGonagall as he said, "I'm sorry, but the cat seems to have gotten away."_

_McGonagall shook her head. "No matter. Cats are flexible creatures—I'm certain she'll find her way."_

_"__I suppose."_

_McGonagall had never before seen James Potter looked so dull. He'd always been lively, bursting with much energy. When he and Lily had announced their engagement, it had only been hours after the fact, thanks to James not being able to contain his excitement, and surely the entire world had heard by the end of the day. When Lily had turned out to be pregnant, he'd been even more thrilled than he had been over their marriage. Never had he been so lifeless as he was now, as he held dearly to the woman he loved very much._

_"__Lily protected Harry," murmured Dumbledore. "A mother's love runs quite deeply, doesn't it?"_

_The room grew quiet, save for James's occasional choked noises of sadness._

_Then, Sirius asked, "Why is Harry still alive?"_

_"__I would suspect," Dumbledore said, "that Lily protected him with her"—his eyes flicked to James, sympathetic—"sacrifice. It's an old type of magic, but surely the strongest. She loved Harry so much that it made him impervious to the Killing Curse as it was cast on him."_

_"__Harry survived the Killing Curse?" Sirius said, surprised. "I thought it couldn't be survived?"_

_"__He would be the first," Dumbledore agreed. "And he will surely be famous for that, and as the vanquisher of Lord Voldemort."_

_James frowned and said flatly, "That's not fair."_

_"__No," Dumbledore said, "it certainly isn't. But Harry has already proven that he is strong. You, too, must remain strong. For Harry, James."_

_James swallowed. "Lily . . ."_

_"__She loved you both," Sirius whispered, settling down beside James again. "Did a day ever pass where you didn't hear her say she loved you, that she loved Harry?"_

_"__She can't love us if she's dead!" James snapped._

_"__James, I'm afraid I have to say differently," Dumbledore said. "I think Lily will be watching over the two of you quite carefully from now on. She will always love you. Love is a strong thing, James."_

_"__Lily," James choked. "What about Harry? How's he supposed to get by without his mother?"_

_"__Hey," Sirius said, giving a slight grin, "haven't me and Moony always been here to help you out?"_

_"__More so Moony than you, I think," James said, squeezing his eyes shut tightly._

_"__Our family is looking rather hopeless, isn't it?"_

_James didn't respond, but his shoulders slumped a tiny bit._

_"__Well, I don't know the first thing about children," Sirius said apologetically. "Maybe Moony could help us out with that."_

_If anything, the conversation seemed to be steering James away from Lily and to Harry, instead. This was good. James had been so focused on Lily that rational thought had seemed far away, and he certainly should've been focusing more on his son._

_"__It's not safe here, Albus," McGonagall spoke up. "Surely we can't allow them to remain here."_

_"__I don't want to," James said. "Stay here, I mean. I couldn't . . . Lily."_

_Sirius placed a reassuring hand on James's shoulder as he passed his friend his baby. Harry was still sleeping soundly, but now Sirius noticed something he hadn't when he'd picked Harry up before._

_"__Harry's hurt," Sirius said, pointing to the infant's forehead._

_Dumbledore leaned down and inspected the wound. "A curse scar," Dumbledore explained. "It comes from the failed curse that Voldemort used against him."_

_James made a choked noise as he stroked his son's forehead._

_"__So it'll stay forever?" Sirius inquired._

_Dumbledore nodded. "I expect there could be some side effects, but nothing overly large to worry yourselves over._

_"__For now," he continued, "I would suggest we go somewhere else—somewhere safe where you can rest."_

_"__Lily," James croaked._

_Sirius, too, looked a tad bit disgusted at the suggestion of leaving Lily behind._

_"__We'll have people over to bring her body back," Dumbledore reassured. "We will certainly have a proper funeral for her. Now, please, come with me. James," he added a bit forcefully, "Lily will be quite taken care of. Right now, you need to think about Harry. He needs you right now."_

_James swallowed. "I know." He pressed a kiss to his wife's cold cheek and whispered, "I love you, Lily," before standing up and following Dumbledore and McGonagall, only half-aware and lead by Sirius. He needed to think about Harry. Harry was his priority._

_It would always be for Harry, James told himself fiercely. James would do whatever it took to keep his son safe—especially now that he had failed to keep Lily safe.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_Your mum was a wonderful woman, Harry," Remus said, smiling. "She was very smart."_

_"__And quite good-looking," Sirius added, smirking._

_James slapped his friend's arm. "I don't appreciate you talking about my wife like that, Padfoot."_

_Harry, now aged ten, had taken to asking his dad and "uncles" about his mother quite often. It was heartbreaking to know that he could not recall, but maybe it was better that way. At least he wasn't still wrecked over it like James was._

_But James had done his best in the past nine years. Sometimes, it got bad, when he remembered their wedding, or Harry's first birthday. Those were the days when he began to realize just how empty his bed was without Lily lying next to him, her green eyes smiling as they slept wrapped in each other's embrace._

_He'd made Harry his priority, always, and while he surely spoiled the boy, he knew that Harry was a good kid, the kind of person Lily would've raised. And that was all that mattered, knowing he was Lily's son, through and through._

_"__But what was she _like_?" Harry pressed._

_"__Well, she was always nice to everyone," Sirius said. "You know, the kind of person who only sees bad in people like your dad . . ." He grinned, winking at a scowling James._

_Harry's eyes widened. "But Dad isn't bad!"_

_Remus chuckled. "Your mother didn't start dating him until they were seventeen. They were a bit mismatched for a while."_

_"__What do you mean?"_

_"__Well," James said, "she thought I was a jerk. I guess I sometimes was, but she always liked me, so she showed her affection in unkind words. She didn't think I was bad at all."_

_"__Okay, what else was there about her?"_

_"__She was a bit of a nerd," James said. "Liked her potions, that one did. Always had her nose dug in a book. The library was one of her favourite places to go."_

_"__But you don't like to read," Harry said._

_Sirius barked with laughter, and James smiled a bit. "No, I don't. I can't really focus on books, you know? They're boring, don't you think, Harry?"_

_"__No!" he said indignantly. "You can learn loads from them!"_

_Remus gave a soft chuckle. "That's true, Harry. You'll do very well at Hogwarts with that kind of attitude."_

_Harry beamed. "You think so?"_

_"__I'm sure you would anyway," Sirius said, "assuming you inherited your mother's brains."_

_"__I'm smart, too!" James protested._

_"__Yes, but I also did offer my helping hand more than a few times," Remus retorted. "I'd feel more comfortable knowing Harry has his mum's smarts than yours. She, at least, didn't need to come to anybody because she hadn't been paying attention in class."_

_"__She was a Gryffindor, wasn't she?" Harry asked._

_"__Where dwell the brave at heart," Sirius mused. "And she was brave, Harry. Very brave."_

_"__She was also very creative," James put in. "She used to draw a lot. And she was quite good at that. Which was hardly fair, since she had such a knack for writing great essays."_

_"__And loving," added Remus. "She loved you and your dad quite a lot, Harry."_

_"__I know," Harry said. "She died protecting us, didn't she?"_

_James's chest tightened, and he looked Harry directly in the eyes—the beautiful emerald green eyes that Lily, too, had had—and said, "Harry, you mum loved you so much that she put herself in harm's way for you. She died protecting you. And, I know, were she here right now, she would do it again in a heartbeat. I want you to know that your mum loved you very much. And from wherever she is now, watching us, she's still sending all her love."_

_Harry looked down at his feet. "I know." Then, almost too quietly to hear, he whispered, "But I wish she hadn't died."_

_Sirius squeezed Harry's shoulder and said, "I think it's time for bed, huh, kiddo?"_

_Harry stood and silently followed Sirius into his room._

_Remus looked to James and said, "I didn't think he was so obsessed with her."_

_James nodded. "I think he wants to know her. Maybe it's going to school next year freaking him out. Maybe he's worried that all his classmates will talk about their mothers and he won't have anything to say about his."_

_"__He doesn't . . . think it's his fault, does he?"_

_James bit his lip, and turned away. "I'm not sure," he said quietly. "But I hope not. He doesn't deserve that."_

_Remus said nothing else, instead turned to look back to the door Sirius closed behind him in which Harry was sleeping. James was right: Harry _didn't _deserve to think he was at fault for his mother's death._

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_They're staring," Harry whispered._

_It was true that most of the people on Platform 9 and ¾ were staring at Harry, James, Sirius, and Remus as they approached the Hogwarts Express. James gripped his son's shoulder tightly and said, "It's okay. They're going to stare for a while, Harry. Just make sure you're something worth staring at."_

_"__Dad!" Harry said, appalled._

_"__Don't listen to him, Harry. He's just jealous because you're getting more attention than he ever did," Sirius said._

_They had stared while they'd shopped for school supplies in Diagon Alley, too, but that had been easy enough to brush off, as Harry was more excited about the fact that he would be getting his school supplies, finally, and heading off to Hogwarts. Now, his enthusiasm had faded into nervousness, and he was noticing more the way people's eyes stuck to him._

_"__As if." James scoffed._

_"__Well, Harry, you'd better get a move on before all the good compartment are taken," Remus advised. "We'll write to you soon. Hedwig will be a great owl to keep us posted on your adventures, won't she?"_

_The snowy owl that Hagrid, Dumbledore's assigned guard for Harry's school shopping, had picked out hooted in agreement with Remus._

_"__I'm not sure my 'adventures' will quite live up to yours," Harry said, but he was smiling._

_"__Ah, well, I'm sure you'll be in just as much trouble as we were regularly in," James said easily. "But listen, Harry. I need you to make sure Snape gets what he deserves. And make sure to be good to McGonagall. She'll be the one to get on the good side of, after all."_

_"__All right, Dad." Harry laughed. "I'll be sure to."_

_He hugged James, Sirius, and Remus and he turned to go off to the train with a "We'll be wanting to hear about all the rules you break!" called after him. Whether it was from Sirius, James, or Remus, Harry couldn't be sure, but he grinned nonetheless. The three of them had armed Harry properly with the things he would need for rule-breaking: James's Invisibility Cloak and the knowledge of all the secret passages in the castle. They'd apologized to him and told him that they would have given them the Marauder's Map, which they had made in their school years, if it hadn't been confiscated in their seventh year._

_James watched Harry go, and never had he felt so empty. Now, he wouldn't see Harry again until Christmas, then not until the spring, and then not until summer. He hoped Harry would be all right without his guidance, but he figured Harry was wise beyond his years and quite capable of taking care of himself._

_"__He'll be all right," Sirius murmured. "He's Lily's son, after all."_

_"__He is," James agreed. "He most certainly is."  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>The youngest Quidditch player at Hogwarts in a century, finder of the Philosopher's Stone, destroyer of Voldemort, Snape's most hated, Gryffindor, and total bender of the rules. Harry was living to meet all of James's expectations of him.<em>

_Lily, of course, was probably having a stroke as she watched over her son, but James couldn't be more proud. Even if Harry had made as many enemies as he had friends, it didn't matter. He'd broken through the barrier that had been placed on him when he'd been dubbed famous._

_It was weird, though, Harry having friends. He'd never really had many friends, because James, Remus, and Sirius had worried about how his reputation might affect his relationships. But it seemed as though he had found great friends in Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger._

_What had been so weird about it, though, was the request to go to the Burrow in the summer. Ron had written letters to Harry, and had requested he come and meet his family._

_James had been reluctant at first, but he'd figured Harry needed the social exercise and had allowed it._

_So, now, here he was, drinking tea with Molly Weasley._

_"__Harry's a delight," Molly said. "You seem to have raised him quite well. I admit, I had my doubts that you would be able to after Lily, but you seem to have pulled through quite well."_

_"__Lily gave everything for him," James said quietly. "I figure I ought to, too."_

_"__It's surely hard, though. I couldn't imagine being a single parent."_

_James laughed. "Oh, no, I assure you I have much assistance. Remus and Sirius have helped me quite a lot. We've raised Harry together, the three of us."_

_Molly smiled. "That's wonderful."_

_It was wonderful. James thought. It was absolutely astounding, how well they'd managed even without Lily._

_"__Your last one goes to Hogwarts this year, doesn't she?" James asked._

_Molly nodded. "She's been excited over it for years."_

_"__How will it feel to have a nearly empty house?" James laughed. "I know when Harry left, I didn't know what to do with myself. I'd spent so many years having him around for company that I was quite lost without him."_

_"__You seem pretty close," Molly observed._

_"__He's had a hard life. He doesn't remember Lily, and that's hard on him. And he's famous, too, for something that nobody would ever want to be famous for. People really don't understand why he comes across as withdrawn, but I think he's a bit guilty."_

_"__What does he have to be guilty for?"_

_"__Lily died to protect him. I think he might feel worn down by that sometimes. Especially since everybody calls him the hero, when he wouldn't be alive right now if it weren't for her. It's hard for him."_

_"__I've never thought of it like that," Molly admitted. "He's always been a household name, you know? Nobody really considers what he's gone through. It's careless of us, really."_

_"__I just think it's unfortunate. I don't know what I'm supposed to do for him."_

_"__He's got to be strong, to go through what he has. I'm sure he can get through all this somehow. And, if he needs help, we'll do whatever we can."_

_"__Thank you, Molly."_

_Molly simply smiled, and James was amazed at how such one small motion could cause so much reassurance. Her small curl of the lips brought James's hunched shoulders down slightly and he gave an almost inaudible sigh of relief. It was nice to know that somebody else was willing to look out for Harry. Some didn't even bother to look beyond his fame and instead based all their actions regarding Harry around that fact. And he'd never had a mother figure, either; maybe Molly could be that person._

_James sometimes missed Lily quite a lot.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_You're going to be teaching?" Harry asked, his eyes wide._

_Remus chuckled. "I am."_

_"__That's great!" Harry positively beamed. "All our other Defence teachers have been rubbish."_

_"__Harry!" James scolded. "That's not the way you should speak about your teachers."_

_He rolled his eyes. "It's true, though. Lockhart was a fraud and Quirrel was actually Voldemort! Uncle Moony will be a much better teacher."_

_"__That's Professor Lupin, to you," Remus said._

_Harry grinned. "All right, then, _sir_."_

_Sirius frowned. "That just sounds weird. Moony, you aren't a sir. You . . . you're _Moony_!"_

_Ignoring Sirius's comment, Remus turned to Harry and said, "I could ride the train with you to Hogwarts, even."_

_"__And you could make sure my grades were decent . . ."_

_"__You take too much after your dad." Remus scoffed. "I'm not going to let you cheat, Harry. If anything, I'll _down _your grades. Just for that comment."_

_"__It was just a joke!" Harry said, his green eyes—Lily's eyes, James thought with a pang—flashing with something that looked a bit like fear. "I didn't mean it! I'm already plenty good at Defence!"_

_"__I know you are," Remus said fondly. "I wasn't serious, either."_

_"__That's because I'm Sirius," said Sirius with an eye roll. "You must be having an identity crisis or something, Moony."_

_Harry snorted. "That was terrible, Uncle Padfoot."_

_"__Ah, well, I tried," he said with a shrug._

_James looked to Harry. "Harry," he said, "can you promise me something, since Uncle Moony will be at Hogwarts this year?"_

_Harry met his father's intense hazel gaze and shifted slightly. "Yeah, sure, Dad. What is it?"_

_"__Can you not get yourself in trouble this year? I'm sick and tired of hearing all the crazy things Harry Potter's done. Everywhere I go, it's all about the things you've done in your past two years. And I'm sick of hearing about it. I, personally, would like some peace from worrying about you all the time."_

_"__I can't make any promises," Harry said apologetically. "For one, it kind of runs in my blood, doesn't it?" At this, Sirius and Remuc smirked, but Harry continued, "And, for two, I don't _try _to get in trouble. I can't really help it that people want me dead, you know?" His voice turned bitter, and James felt it like a slap in the face._

_"__I'm sorry," James whispered. "But just try. I worry about you."_

_"__I won't let him put a toe out of line," Remus vowed. "Well, as long as I can't see it," he added with a wink to Harry._

_Harry gave a weak smile. He felt a bit shaky. He'd never really voice the fact that he thoroughly hated that he had people out for his blood before, but now he'd just let it slip and his dad was looking almost guilty, like it was his fault Harry was on Voledmort's naughty list._

_It wasn't. It was Harry's fault, wasn't it? Harry's fault that Lily had died, Harry's fault that James sometimes seemed so unhappy . . . It was Harry's fault. All of it.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_Dad?"_

_James looked up at Harry as he entered the family room. Harry's fourteenth birthday had been just yesterday, but he looked quite troubled._

_"__What's wrong, Harry?"_

_Harry sat down beside his father, and James suddenly noticed how sunken Harry's eyes looked. Remus had told him all about the things that had happened, and Dumbledore had also talked briefly about it. Harry's letters had lacked, and when he'd come home for the holidays he hadn't spoken much of his time at school. But he had been pretty withdrawn, and James figured, now, that it had something to do with the revelation of Peter being their Secret-Keeper so long ago (as James had never spoken of this, it being a touchy topic for him as well) and with the way the Dementors had been so focused on him. _

_"__I know why the Dementors . . . why they went after me," Harry said quietly._

_James wrapped an arm around his son's shoulders protectively, but said nothing._

_"__It's because of Mum," he continued. "When they went after me, I could remember all the bad things that had ever happened to me, all in one moment. And through all those, I could hear her. Screaming. When he killed her."_

_Harry's voice was shaking as he spoke, but he didn't stop. "I started having nightmares. Of that night. I'd never remembered it before, and then suddenly I did, and it was all I could think about. All year. From the moment the Dementor came after me on the train to even now. And I just . . . I hated it. It wasn't fair. The one thing I remember of her is her dying? A flash of green and her scream, and sudden black. It's not fair."_

_"__Harry . . ."_

_"__And so I asked Uncle Moony to teach me how to do a patronus," Harry said. "It took me a long time to get it right, but I eventually did. A stag, like you." He looked down at his hands for a moment. "I felt bad after. I thought maybe it wasn't fair that it wasn't what Mum's was. Uncle Moony told me it was okay, but I still . . . I felt really guilty. I didn't think I was honouring her memory the right way."_

_James took a deep breath and asked, "And now?"_

_"__Now I think it's worse."_

_"__Is that why you came to me? Harry, you could never dishonour your mother. She loved you very much."_

_"__Yeah." He looked like he might cry, but he put on a strong face. "I know she loved me—that she still does, wherever she is. I just don't feel like I'm someone she would be proud to have as a son."_

_"__Why not?"_

_"__I'm a coward," Harry said quietly. "I run away from things. And it's not as if I'm a good person. It's my fault she's dead, and I'm not even honouring her right."_

_"__You are _not _a coward," James insisted. "And it's not your fault she's dead, Harry. I don't know where you got that idea, but I want you to drop it."_

_James had never heard Harry say that he thought Lily's death was his fault, but he supposed it made sense. If she hadn't been protecting Harry, she would still be alive. But, then, Harry would've died, and Lily would have blamed herself, because that was just the person she was. And James knew that he'd just let Lily slip away from him, like water through his fingers. He should've been there for his wife and son, but he hadn't been. That was his biggest regret._

_"__If she hadn't been trying to keep me safe . . ." Harry trailed off, and a tear slid down his cheek. "It's my fault, Dad. She should've just let me die and saved herself, but she put herself between me and Voldemort instead. She could be sitting here with you."_

_"__Harry, Voldemort is the one at fault here," James said forcefully. "Your mother didn't die for nothing. She died for you, because she loves you. Not because she felt an obligation to, but because she loved you so much that she wouldn't let anybody kill you. If she had survived, she never would have forgiven herself for letting you die. She loved you more than anything."_

_Harry didn't say anything as James pulled him close. He just continued to stare at his lap, small tears falling once in a while._

_James understood what his son was feeling, and he wished madly that Harry wasn't feeling it. Harry didn't deserve to think he'd let Lily die when it hadn't been his fault in any way, shape, or form._

_"__Is there something else bothering you, Harry?" James asked after a minute of silence._

_Harry looked up and nodded once, but he didn't say what was on his mind._

_"__Harry?" James swallowed. He'd never seen Harry's eyes look so lifeless before._

_"__What would she think if . . . if I were . . . gay?" His voice was small, and James wouldn't have heard him if he hadn't been sitting right beside him._

_James blinked. Gay? Harry had never said anything like this before, but maybe it was something he just didn't like to think about. But _was_ Harry gay? It would mean no grandchildren, of course, but that was okay. It wasn't like James's family had been like Sirius's, obsessed with blood purity. If that was the case, he would've been disowned the moment he'd gotten involved with Lily._

_"__She would love you anyway," James said. He paused and then asked, "Harry, are you?"_

_"__I . . . I don't know." His tears had started falling again. "I think . . . maybe. I don't know."_

_James held him tighter. "It's okay, Harry. I'll still love you, too, you know. And Uncle Moony and Uncle Padfoot, too. We love you no matter what, Harry."_

_He nodded, but he didn't meet James's gaze. "No matter what . . . ," Harry muttered under his breath._

_"__Hey, Prongs—"_

_Sirius stopped midsentence as he noticed Harry and James's serious looks._

_He sat on the other side of Harry without missing another beat. "What's wrong?" he asked, not really sure if he was talking to Harry or to James._

_"__Harry, are you all right?" James questioned softly. "Uncle Padfoot wants to talk to you, too."_

_Harry shook his head. "I don't think I am all right." He laughed a small, mirthless laugh. "A bit of a mess, actually."_

_"__Harry, what's wrong?" Sirius demanded. "Has something happened?"_

_Harry wiped at his eyes, hating that he'd cried. But these men had raised him. He knew perfectly well that they'd seen him cry before. They would love him no matter what. No matter what._

_And so he took a deep breath and he faced his godfather. "I think I'm gay," he said, but his voice was far from confident. He faltered at the end of his statement, and he turned back to his hands, as if they'd become the most fascinating thing on the planet._

_Sirius frowned for one moment, but it was replaced by a grin almost immediately. "Moony said something about thinking you might fancy blokes."_

_Harry's head shot up, and then he realized what Sirius had said and blushed._

_"__He said that to you?" James asked in disbelief. "He never mentioned anything to me!"_

_"__Dad," Harry moaned._

_"__Yeah, Prongs. Come on. We know you well enough to think you might've confronted Harry about it. Besides, you're the first person Harry told of the three of us, aren't you?"_

_"__But Harry's still my son!" James protested._

_"__Even more reason not to mention it." Sirius laughed. He turned to Harry, "It doesn't matter, anyway, Harry. Whether or not you'd rather look at blokes isn't important. You should be more focussed on how you're going to get them to look back." He winked._

_Harry groaned and buried his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, Uncle Padfoot, but I really don't want dating advice from you."_

_"__Oh, come on, Harry, everybody came after me when I was in Hogwarts—girls _and _boys. See, I was devilishly handsome. Still am, of course, but I don't get as many people after me these days. Too many of them ask about you, see."_

_"__Please, stop," said Harry. "You know what? You're terrible. I think I'm going to go find Uncle Moony."_

_"__But he was spreading rumours about you, Harry!"_

_"__It's not a rumour if it's true," Harry shot back, standing up and making his way to the kitchen._

_James looked at Sirius and smiled. "Thank you," he said. "He was pretty upset for a minute, there."_

_"__I always did have that effect on people, didn't I?"_

_James rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Mostly because it was true. James could never dream of making somebody laugh the way Sirius had just made Harry laugh about something so heavy._

_He would love Harry no matter what, too. They all would._


	2. Chapter One: Guilty

**Author's note: **thanks so much for all the support, guys! I love it when I get emails at school (thought it's a bit of tease, considering this site is blocked at my school for whatever reason) saying that I've got favourites and follows (and even a review!). So, thanks bunches. By the way, I will explain how third year went, since obviously Sirius would be free and have never been in Azkaban. Also, my apologies for mistakes. I've read the books a lot of times, but I've only read Order of the Phoenix three times, and it was a long time ago.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this and please review! Thanks, guys!

* * *

><p>"Cedric . . . no. No! Kill me instead!"<p>

Remus and James stood together, watching Harry toss and turn in his bed as a nightmare took him over.

"It's happening too often," James said in a low voice.

"But what can we do?" Remus asked, looking a bit hopeless. "It doesn't help that he was moved to this house, either. Voldemort's driven him away from his home."

"Voldemort's driven him away from everything," James growled.

"Should we wake him up?"

James watched his son, moaning for somebody to come back to him when they were already gone. It was terrible, what Harry had been fated to. He'd first watched his own mother die, and then he'd been forced to watch a classmate die in the same way. He'd watched the man that had single-handedly destroyed his life rise once again—with the help of Harry's own blood.

"I don't think we would be able to," James admitted.

Harry wasn't even fifteen yet, and his life already lay in shambles. A long time ago, his fate had been determined, but James didn't want to see Harry face off against Voldemort. Not his son. Anybody but his son.

"Should I get Sirius? Sirius is always so good at cheering him up."

James nodded, not really paying attention. Sirius _was_ good at cheering Harry up. James figured it had to do with that the fact that Sirius didn't cave under Harry's explanations of things as James did. For James, it was hard to face the fact that Harry was so miserable. He just never knew what to do. Sirius, on the other hand, had always done well under that pressure. While Sirius had always been anxious when it came to his family (hence why he'd looked so terrible since moving back into number twelve, Grimmauld Place), he seemed to have no difficulties managing the figure that had become something like a son to him,

Remus came back, Sirius coming after him, quite awake. He hadn't fallen asleep yet, with the ghosts of his past swimming around him in this house.

"Poor Harry," Sirius muttered. "I wish we could do something for him."

"We just have to be here for him," James said. "He'll pull through. He always does, doesn't he?"

"He will," Remus agreed. "We'll just have to do our best to be there for him. And I know Molly loves him like her own, too."

"Do you think Molly knows about this?" Sirius murmured.

"I don't see how she couldn't. Harry can't hide when he's sleeping," James said. Then added, a bit sadly, "I wish he didn't hide at all."

"He's expected to be strong. He's the Boy Who Lived, the one who vanquished the Darkest wizard of all time when he was just a year old. People think he's not as human as everyone else, and so he tried not to be."

James thought back to when Harry had told him about his guilt over Lily's death and about his suspected gayness (which had proven to be a hindrance on Harry, so far, as he'd mentioned when McGonagall had insisted he take a girl to the Yule Ball and Harry hadn't wanted to admit that he didn't like girls, but had ultimately made getting a date hard, because he didn't think any of the girls were attractive—only their dates). Or when he'd come out of that maze, Cedric's body in his arms. When he'd refused to let Cedric go, that had been the first time James had seen Harry break down in front of anybody but he, Sirius, and Remus. Since then, it had been like he'd been walking on a tightrope. He'd been so fragile lately, growing angry with everybody for little things. He'd yelled at Ron and Hermione when he'd seen them this summer upon their arrival at Grimmauld Place. For what, James wasn't sure, but he'd heard Harry from downstairs.

Harry shot up, and James made his way inside Harry's room. Without a word, he wrapped his son in a hug and just sat there, holding him, while Remus and Sirius made their way to the two them more slowly.

"Are you okay, Harry?" Remus asked.

"No."

"It's okay," James whispered. "You'll be fine."

"It's my fault," Harry choked out. "He died, and I was right there . . . I didn't do anything."

"You couldn't have," James murmured. "There was nothing you could have done, Harry. You did your best."

"I told him to take it with me," Harry said, his voice quiet and shaky. "I told him to grab the cup with me."

"You didn't know," Sirius told him.

"I still told him to take it with me."

No more words were exchanged between the four of them as James continued to hug Harry and Sirius and Remus looked on, sombre.

And then Harry spoke up:

"It was him, you know."

"Who?" Remus asked gently.

"Pettigrew. He was the one that cut my arm, who killed Cedric. He gave his own hand to Voldemort to bring him back." Harry made a choked noise and buried his head in James's shoulder.

"That bastard," Sirius spat. "He'll pay for what he's done. I swear it."

"Sirius," Remus muttered, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Not here."

"Sorry."

"How do you feel, Harry?" James asked cautiously.

Harry's voice was muffled from James's shirt as he said, "Pretty bad."

Remus smiled shakily. "Do you want something? A glass of water, maybe?"

"I don't know."

"Should I get one anyway?" Remus asked.

"I don't know."

"Harry, listen to Uncle Moony," James said. "He wants to help."

"I don't need help," Harry said, pulling away from James.

"Harry—"

"I don't need help," Harry repeated flatly. "Nor do I really deserve it. I let him die. And Mum died because of me, too. I don't deserve help."

Sirius looked to James, the unspoken question of "_Did you know about this_?" in his eyes. James gave one small nod before turning back to Harry.

"Harry James Potter," he said warningly, "I know you think that, but we're offering to help you. We love you, and we want to help you. I thought we'd talked about you mother, too. She loves you."

Harry blinked as tears threatened to spill over. "I'm sorry, Uncle Moony," he said quietly. "I don't need anything. I should go back to sleep."

James eyed Harry warily. "Are you sure? We can stay here with you if you don't want to fall asleep."

"I . . . yeah, I'd like that," Harry said. "Please."

"We'll always be here for you, Harry," James assured.

Sirius said, "So, Harry, I'm sorry to ask at such an unfortunate time, but I've been wondering for a while . . . how's you love life?"

"Love life? I don't really have time for one, do I?"

"Nonsense," Remus said with a slight smile. "Surely you fancy somebody."

"Well, yeah, but I don't think . . ." Harry blushed and ducked his head. Thankfully, he seemed to have become less focused on Cedric's death and Voldemort's rise.

"You don't think what?" Sirius prompted. "Don't think we would like him?"

"Well, no, I mean, I don't . . . can we please talk about something else?"

Sirius, Remus, and James laughed.

"Sure, Harry," James said, amused. "How about . . ."

"Ron and Hermione," Sirius suggested. "They seem to have a thing."

Harry grinned a bit. "A thing, I guess. They aren't dating or anything, but they obviously fancy each other. They probably just need a push in the right direction."

"Your mum and dad were like that, too. Except she didn't want to admit she liked him, so they fought a lot."

Harry nodded. "Sounds a lot like Ron and Hermione, actually."

James grimaced. "I don't envy them, then."

"Well," Remus mused, "you've already gone through that, haven't you? Why would you want to go through it again?'

"Don't remind me!" James groaned.

"What in the world is all the noise!"

Molly glowered at them from the doorway, and James shrunk back slightly. He supposed, as a woman with six children, she would have one hell of a glare—especially with those Weasley twins. He'd heard a fair lot of nonsense went on with those boys.

"Sorry, Molly," Remus said smoothly. "It appears none of us were able to sleep, and so we decided to take to each other's company. A night spent alone isn't the best, is it?"

She seemed to understand the hidden meaning in Remus's words, because she glanced at Harry and nodded. "All right. Just keep it down, would you? You're as loud as Fred and George."

James and Sirius shared a look, as they knew that it had been the twins who had found the Marauder's Map, as Harry had told them after his third year. Remus, however, smiled at Molly. "Of course. We'll be quiet."

Harry almost laughed, but he still felt as though there were a weight in his stomach from the nightmare. He figured it would be best to put on a brave face for James, Sirius, and Remus, but at the same time, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were putting themselves in danger by caring for him. Too many people around him had died, and he didn't want his three father figures to be next. Not after what had happened to his mum and Cedric.

"Harry," whispered James as Molly walked away, "are you all right? You look tired."

"I am," Harry admitted. "Exhausted. But I don't want to sleep."

"You can't stay awake forever, Harry," Remus said sadly. "You can beat this, you know. I know you can."

"I don't think I can, Uncle Moony," Harry said in a shaky voice. "I'm really . . . I'm afraid."

"I know, Harry. But we have to face our fears. Do you remember how bravely you faced the Dementors? You need to face this, too, in the same way. The only difference is that this time, there won't be a spell to help you."

"There are potions," Harry pointed out weakly.

"You don't want to become too reliant on potions," Remus warned.

"I won't," Harry said. "I just . . . don't think I want to face this right now."

"I don't have any potions for dreamless sleep, Harry," Sirius said. "If I did, I would give you one, but I'm not a Healer or a potion-maker."

James grabbed Harry's hand tightly. "It's okay, Harry. You don't have to sleep just yet. I'll stay awake with you."

"I can't sleep in this house, anyway," Sirius said. "I'll stay with you, too."

Remus smiled. "Well, I guess that leaves me, doesn't it? I think it's obvious that I'm perfectly willing to stay with you, Harry."

Harry smiled softly. "Thank you," he said.

But within two hours, he was fast asleep, surrounded by people he loved. And no nightmares haunted his mind.

* * *

><p>"You'll write, won't you, Harry?" Sirius asked. "We want to know all about your school. From what we've heard, it might not be a fun year."<p>

Harry frowned. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well," Remus said, "you have a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

"So? We have a new one every year."

"Yes, well, I figure you won't like this one. But I may be wrong. Anyway, you'll understand when you meet her. I don't want to give you an opinion of someone you've never met before."

Harry sighed, and James tensed, wondering if this conversation was setting him on edge. A lot of things set Harry on edge these days.

"Come on, Harry!" Hermione called from closer to the train. "We have to go!"

"Bye," Harry said, giving James a hug. Harry was still, thankfully, shorter than James, but he was nearing the same height. Yet Harry had always been short, so maybe he wasn't going to grow any taller than this.

"See you, kiddo," said Sirius, hugging his godson in farewell.

"Write me a letter soon," Remus told Harry as they, too, shared an embrace. "I'd like to know your thoughts on your new teacher."

"All right," Harry said, with a small eye roll.

"Don't forget to break loads of rules." Sirius winked.

"When don't I?"

"Harry!" Hermione called again, this time coming over to him. "Harry, you're going to miss the train if you don't hurry up!"

"Oh, don't worry, Hermione," Sirius said easily. "He's got loads of time."

"I don't, actually," Harry said. "I'll see you at Christmas, then."

And he walked away with Hermione, leaving James, Sirius, and Remus behind again. He would see them soon. He would need to. They were the only people who seemed to understand. Ron and Hermione couldn't understand the weight Cedric's death had put on Harry's shoulder, or the guilt he _still _felt over his mother. Nobody had ever died for them. Nobody had ever died in front of them. Nobody they'd loved had sacrificed themselves for them.

"Harry, you should sleep," Hermione said worriedly as the train began to move. "You look terrible."

"I don't want to sleep," he persisted. He hadn't slept properly in months. He got five hours a night, but only if he was lucky. Most nights it was more like three.

"I think you need to," Hermione insisted.

"Well, I don't _want _to!" Harry snapped. "Hermione, how would you feel if every time you closed your eyes all you saw was the worst moment of your life?"

This quieted her, but soon the compartment door slid open and Ginny, Luna, Neville, and Ron stepped inside.

"Hey, mate," Ron said, seating himself beside Harry. "D'you mind if we share with these three? Ginny said all the compartments were taken."

"I don't mind," Harry mumbled.

"Sure, we can share," Hermione said, and Ginny sat down next to her, Luna beside her. Neville settled into the spot beside Ron.

"Harry, you look dreadful," Ginny said. "Are you sick?"

"No, I'm not," Harry said, biting his tongue to refrain from snapping at her the way he had at Hermione (which he was beginning to feel tremendously guilty for).

"Oh, sorry."

Luna gazed curiously at Harry, and Harry shifted under her gaze. He'd met Luna before, if briefly. She was a friend of Ginny's, and he and Ginny actually had a fairly good relationship. They'd began in a rocky manner, with Ginny being bewildered every time she's seen him, but since the end of her first year, she'd stopped that. For a while, she'd been a bit afraid of him, but she was able to move past that. And Neville he'd been friends with for a long time. His dad had insisted he befriend Neville Longbottom, and Harry had not regretted this in any way. Neville, while sometimes a bit odd, was a wonderful person with quite a tragic past, from what Harry knew.

The six of them held idle conversation as they got closer to Hogwarts, and they eventually went separate ways to change, then met up again in the compartment. They rode one of the Thestral-pulled carriages together (which, admittedly, was a bit squishy) up to the castle, and made their way into the Great Hall for the Welcoming Feast.

This was where Harry understood what Remus had meant when he'd said he might not like the new DADA teacher. She was pink, frilly, and had come from the Ministry, who had all pegged Harry as a liar. He didn't need to hear her voice to know she wasn't someone he would like, but when he did, he disliked her all the more.

But he swallowed his obvious dislike and listened as she droned on about "the Ministry this" and "the Ministry that." Dumbledore was looking quite irate, but contained it well enough.

"Very well," he said stiffly, once Umbridge had completed her speech. "That will be all. Good night!" He clapped once, and the students all stood to be lead by the Head Boy and Head Girl, along with the prefects, up to their dormitories. Hermione and Ron had been elected as prefects this year (they'd had patrol aboard the train, but they'd come back to the compartment afterwards, so it hardly seemed worth mentioning). When James had found out, he'd told Harry that he suspected Dumbledore had done that as an extra precaution towards Harry's well-being. It wasn't as if it would change anything, though; often, Ron and Hermione got into trouble _with _Harry. They just kind of attracted it—Harry often, teasingly, blamed his dad for this, with which he often got a response along the lines of, "But we never got _caught_!"

As the three of them settled into Gryffindor's common room, Hermione said, "How many of them do you think have been reading the _Prophet_?"

"Too many," Harry guessed. "I saw some people looking a bit disgusted with me at the feast, but I didn't really think much of it."

"You have no reason to think much of it," Hermione said. "If they think you're lying, that's their problem."

"Except I'm _not _lying, so I do have a bit of a problem with it!"

"Hey, mate, we believe you," Ron said.

"But what's two people in comparison to the whole school?" Harry scoffed. "That's not much, and sorry to say it, but you have an obligation to believe me, don't you?"

"An obligation? Harry, we're not _obligated _to do _anything_!" Hermione responded hotly.

"Well, wouldn't it be a bit rude for you to say I was lying as my friends?"

"If we didn't truly believe you, we probably wouldn't still _be _your friends! And, quite frankly, you aren't making it seem like you want to keep us around!"

Harry blinked, feeling suddenly stupid. "I'm sorry," he said. "I . . . it's just too much."

"I know," Hermione told him sadly. "We know, Harry."

"You want to know something terrible?" Harry continued. "In the summer, there were a few nights where I wouldn't sleep at all. I would stay awake, and Dad and Uncle Moony and Uncle Padfoot would stay awake with me. When I did sleep, I woke up within small hours of falling asleep." Harry wasn't sure why he was saying it, but neither Ron nor Hermione had interrupted, and so he didn't stop:

"I thought maybe I would be able to pretend it hadn't happened, but then I felt guilty, you know? Like I wasn't honouring Cedric the way I should've been. And I just keep wanting to fall asleep, but it's embarrassing, being afraid of your own dreams, so I didn't. And then I realized it's wrong to my mum, because everyone tells me I should be brave, brave like she was, and I'm not. I don't know how I got into Gryffindor in the first place.

"I know that everybody's worried about me and stuff, but I don't want anybody to worry. I want to be able to get past this myself, and I don't want to have to share this kind of thing with anybody else, and maybe it's stupid, but I really don't want to have anybody trying to help me. It's just not fair, you know?"

"Harry, you're getting a bit . . ."

Hermione was right; he was beginning to babble a bit. He looked down at his feet and muttered, "Sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, mate," Ron said gently.

"Harry, it's okay to get help," Hermione said. "Even if you don't want it, you probably need it. We're stronger in numbers, Harry, and you can't face this alone."

Harry glanced up at her and shook his head slightly. "But what if you get hurt in the process? What if you get killed, too, so that nobody can stand between us anymore? What if all you are is a spare, like Cedric?"

Hermione grabbed his hand. "Harry, you can't—"

Harry yanked his hand away. "That's what will happen, Hermione! You'll be killed, so that Voldemort can get to me! I'm who he wants, and I don't want you to have to be hurt when it comes down to it!"

"We'd do it for you," Ron said quietly. "You're our best mate, Harry."

Harry put his hands into fists to stop them from shaking so badly, but to no avail. "I don't want you to!" he cried. "I would never forgive myself if you died!"

"We don't plan on it," Hermione assured him. "And, Harry, we wouldn't forgive ourselves if _you_ died. So, we plan to help you through everything. This included." She turned around and blushed a bit. "Besides, your dad asked us to keep an eye on you."

"He did?" Harry wasn't sure if he was angry or pleased to hear this information. Either way, it stirred his stomach oddly.

"Yeah, right before we left for the station," Ron said. "Him and Sirius and Remus."

"We all care about you, Harry," Hermione whispered. "We just want you to be okay."

And Harry was suddenly reminded of the conversation he'd had with his father two years ago. He'd told Harry that his mum would always love him, no matter what. And then, when he'd duelled with Voldemort the year before, and the _Prior Incantatem _had occurred, he'd seen her. She had been a mere echo, of course, but she'd still praised him, told him he was brave, told him she was proud of what he'd done . . . but he wasn't. He wasn't brave. He wasn't somebody to be proud of. How could he be? He was an abnormality, preferring those of his own gender to the opposite sex and having the stupid scar on his head and thinking that his school enemy had a really nice arse when they were _supposed to be enemies. _Not to mention being dubbed a liar for saying the truth and breaking down over a boy that he'd actually thought was really attractive (maybe it had been something to tell him he didn't think that Draco Malfoy was sexy, but Cedric had been quite good-looking) after he'd let him die, as if he had that right.

He was a freak. He was weird. Abnormal.

He hated it.

Ron and Hermione didn't understand. Not even his dad or Sirius or Remus did. Nobody could understand. Nobody else was going to be killed by Lord Voldemort and only hadn't so far because they were a lucky, sly person who had somehow been called brave from the things he'd done. He'd never told anybody that the Sorting Hat had wanted him to be in Slytherin. He'd only told his dad, Sirius, and Remus that he was gay. Nobody would know his secrets, either; they were _his, _weren't they?

And yet he was an open book. He wore his heart on his sleeve and couldn't figure out to put some walls around himself. He was a mess. He cried a lot more than he would care to admit and everybody always knew exactly what he was thinking. At least, everything except for the fact that he thought Draco Malfoy had a nice arse. Somehow, nobody seemed to guess that. For which, of course, he was quite thankful.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione murmured, wrapping him in a warm embrace.

For a moment, he wondered why she was suddenly hugging him, and then he realized, with slight anger at himself, that two tears had slid down his cheek. He hated crying, and yet he seemed to do so much of it. But it was a weakness, and he could not be weak.

"Hermione," Harry mumbled, "I'm fine." He detached her arms from around his shoulders and stood up. "I'm going to bed. Good night."

Ron and Hermione watched him go, then turned to each other with similar looks on their faces: a mixture of dumbstruck and sympathetic.

"D'you think he trusts us?" Ron asked. "It's just weird, isn't it? Harry not talking to us . . ."

"I think he's not told us things for a long time," Hermione said carefully. "He's always been a bit secretive, hasn't he? And I guess he's got good reason, but still. There are a lot of things we don't know about him, like why he hates Halloween so much . . ."

Ron frowned. "I guess. But do you think he doesn't trust us?"

"I think he trusts us, but he doesn't feel like he should share the weight of things with other people."

"So he's going to bottle up all everything?" Ron fumed.

"I'm sure he talks to his dad."

"But his dad isn't here, is he?" Ron took a deep breath. "We should talk to him, get him to open up some more. If he only talks to his dad, then that's an issue, because he doesn't see him again in a few months."

"I know you're worried, but—"

"I'm not just worried, Hermione. I'm afraid for him." Ron frowned more deeply. "He came to Hogwarts a happy kid, don't you remember? He talked about his dad like he was his hero, and he sometimes talked about his mum, too, like he'd known her really well even if he can't remember. And I remember, in our third year, when Lupin talked about Harry, it was always that he was a 'great kid who just happened to have a tragic past.' He said Harry didn't deserve the things that had happened to him."

Hermione nodded. "He changed that year, too. He started to step even farther away. I think he felt guilty. Do you remember how he said he heard a woman screaming on the train when that Dementor came after him? That was his mum."

"How do you know that?"

Hermione blushed. "I . . . I heard him talking to Lupin about it, actually."

Ron gaped. Hermione, _eavesdropping_? "Hermione," he said, "why didn't you ever say anything?"

"Because it's Harry's business! And I only brought it up now because I think he feels like it's his fault his mum's dead!"

"But he couldn't have done anything," Ron pointed out dumbly.

"He couldn't have done anything about Cedric, either, and he doesn't seem to be taking that overly well."

"I guess."

They lapsed into silence, Hermione's mind moving at a million miles an hour. How could they get Harry back to his old self? Did his old self even exist anymore? Or was it hidden beneath a mask of strength and guilt? Even if they could find the old Harry, though, there was always the chance that he would slip back into the person he was now. But how could they ever get him back? Hermione and Ron were trying their hardest, and Hermione knew that James, Sirius, and Remus had tried to cheer him up a bit, but to no avail. If they couldn't do it, who could?

"Has he ever talked about getting a girlfriend?" Hermione asked, a bit out of nowhere.

Ron blinked. "I dunno. I don't think so. He never seemed that interested in girls, you know?"

Hermione sighed, defeated. "I thought maybe . . ."

"A relationship would help?"

"Yeah. I don't know what else to do."

"I don't think we _can _do anything, Mione," Ron said. "Just be here for him. That's the best we can do right now, I think."

Hermione looked pained. "I want to do more."

"I know," Ron whispered, grabbing her hand. "I know you do. We both do. And we will. We'll figure something out."

Hermione glanced down at Ron's hand in hers and smiled softly. "We will. We'll make things right. We have to."

And they would. No matter what it took.


	3. Chapter Two: Truthfully

**Author's note: **So, firstly, my apologies for taking so long to get this up. I'd meant to post it on Friday, but my computer was being stupid and wouldn't open anything online. I would've done more to fix it, but I was on a tight schedule, as it was late and I had to be up early in the morning. I also had to swim this weekend, so I was away from the computer.

Secondly, my most sincerest thanks for all the favourites, follows, and reviews! I'm so glad there are people that seem to be enjoying this (I'll admit, I hadn't been expecting much of a reaction from anybody). I know this isn't the best fan fiction out there, but it means loads to me that anybody would take time out of their day to read it. So, thanks! And enjoy this chapter, too!

**Chapter Two: Truthfully**

_Dear Dad, Uncle Moony, and Uncle Padfoot,_

_You were right, Uncle Moony: she's terrible. On top of already giving me weeks of detentions, she won't even let us do anything practical! How are we supposed to protect ourselves with reading textbooks only? It's ridiculous. Ron and Hermione think I should teach our classmates some actual defensive magic, but I'm not overly great at it. Besides, we would probably be breaking a few rules to do that. Then again, when _haven't _we broken a few rules?_

_Actually, the idea of breaking rules seems a bit exhausted. I've probably broken all of Hogwarts's rules already. Somehow, I feel like four years of consecutive rule-breaking ought to have really brought me up there. I'd also never think I'd see the day when Hermione asked me to break rules, and I'm actually considering her idea of me teaching some magic to my classmates because of that._

_Speaking of Ron and Hermione, they mentioned something about you guys talking to them before we left for the station this summer about me. Did you? Because I'm quite capable of taking care of things myself, you know. I know you're worried, but I don't want to drag Ron and Hermione into anything. They seem to think that they'd be willing to sacrifice their safety for me, but I don't think I'm willing to let that happen. I don't overly enjoy the thought of that. So, don't make them worry about me, too; it'll only make them want to "protect" me even more._

_Also, a lot of people having being reading too much of the _Prophet. _I suppose I can't do much about that, but it's still frustrating._

_Love,_

_Harry._

James smiled as he showed Remus the letter from Harry. "He wants to _teach _them, Remus!"

"Yes, but he's got a bit of a temper, hasn't he?" Remus said carefully. "What if somebody were to say something that set him on edge?"

"Then he can hex them." James shrugged. "I think it's great, personally. He's grown up quite a lot, hasn't he?"

Remus looked at James a bit warily, but said nothing from the way his friend's chest so evidently swelled with pride. It was like, when they'd been in their fifth year, when James, Sirius, and Peter had managed to make themselves proper Animagi. James had been so proud of himself then, and now it was no different, except for, this time, he was proud of his son. Which, really, was all the more reason not to voice his worries.

"Do you think he's mad at us about Ron and Hermione?" asked Remus.

James shook his head. "He would've said something. He's got Lily's temper, you know? She always did say what was on her mind."

"He's never _had _much of a temper before, James!" Remus said, flustered. "He's absolutely wrecked, and you're not doing a thing to help him!"

James blinked and turned to face Remus. "I've done everything I could," he said quietly. "But how do you help someone get through something you're still not through, and more? I can't help him, because I don't understand what he's going through, and it's not as if he's overly vocal. And how am I supposed to get him to talk?"

Remus suddenly felt himself fill with a cold emotion he couldn't exactly put a name to. Shame, maybe? Guilt? "I'm sorry," he said. "I know you're doing your best. It's hard for Sirius and me, too."

"Where is Sirius?"

"I'm not sure," Remus said. "Downstairs, I'd assume."

James nodded, and turned back to Hedwig. "Wait here for a while, Hedwig. I'll give you a letter to get back to Harry."

He and Remus made their way to the lower level of Grimmauld Place, and found Sirius in the entrance, letting somebody inside.

". . . in here," Sirius was saying. "I can get you something to eat, it's nearly lunchtime."

James peered over his friend's shoulder, and noticed that the person that Sirius was speaking to was Dumbledore.

The Headmaster shook his head, and said, "Quite all right, Sirius. I won't be too long."

He smiled a bit when he saw James, and made his way past Sirius, who was looking only slightly irritated at being brushed aside so casually. "James, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like a word."

At James's furrowed eyebrows, he clarified, "It's about Harry. There are things that we must discuss regarding this year at Hogwarts, and the issue of Voldemort."

Sirius blinked, then, a bit angrily, said, "Whatever you have to say about Harry can be said in front of Remus and me, too."

Dumbledore looked to James, who gave a nod to show that, yes, Remus and Sirius deserved to be put into this conversation. James knew what it was about, when Dumbledore said "the issue of Voldemort"; Sirius and Remus did not, but it would be a fairly easy thing to explain. And, of course, it was only right that they should know, too; James should not have hidden the information from them in the first place, but Dumbledore had advised him not to tell Harry, and there was always the chance that Harry might overhear. Otherwise, he just hadn't known how to bring it up. Now was as good a time as any, he supposed.

"Very well, then," Dumbledore said. "Lead the way."

The four men sat around the table in the dining room, and Dumbledore clasped his hands together before speaking. "As you know, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher has come from the Ministry, who have all decided that Voldemort has not risen. This, already, has been a bit of issue for Harry, and she has complaints about his behaviour in her class."

Remus and James exchanged looks, and James tucked Harry's letter, still clasped in his hand, into his pocket.

"His behaviour in class?" Sirius asked, looking flummoxed. "I think it's only fair that he have his moments with her, don't you think? He saw a boy die last year at Voldemort's follower's hand!"

James swallowed, looking down. He still sometimes couldn't quite fathom the fact that Peter, the boy they had considered a friend, had so easily betrayed them—and hurt Harry, too. He also noticed, with a slight pang, the way Sirius avoided recognizing that it was Peter. Perhaps Sirius and Remus were still just as troubled by it as James was (though, somehow, he doubted that Remus was, considering his willingness to kill Peter merely two years prior).

"I'm quite aware of what happened last year," Dumbledore said in a slightly sold voice. "However, I worry that he may find himself in a bad position in regards to Dolores. As far as I know, they've already started out rather poorly. Not," he added, "that I expect them to have a positive relationship of any sorts. I simply hope that, for his own sake, Harry holds his temper with her."

"Headmaster," Remus said politely, "I know you surely have Harry's best interests in mind, but I'm not certain that holding his temper would be best. If he gets detentions, then that's but a minor consequence, isn't it? If he wishes for the truth to be told, then surely it's all right for him to tell it."

Dumbledore grimaced, and shook his head again. "Remus, I fear that but a few detentions may not be his only punishment. If things continue the way I believe they will, then I can only assume that she will be beyond that of an average teacher. The Ministry wishes for an insider, and she cannot be that person from such a distance."

James shivered slightly. "I'll talk to him," he promised.

"Thank you." Dumbledore paused for a moment, seeming hesitant to bring up his next topic. "Now, as with Voldemort's rise, I feel it's time Harry knew about the truth . . ."

Remus and Sirius cast curious gazes towards Dumbledore, whereas James just looked down. "I'm not sure I can," he allowed. "It's been a long time without saying anything, and I don't know what, exactly, it said."

"What—?" Sirius began, but faltered as Dumbledore turned to face him.

"There was a prophecy," Dumbledore explained. "The reason why James and Lily went into hiding all those years ago. It spoke of Voldemort's downfall, and of Harry."

Sirius blinked. "James, you knew about this?"

James nodded. "I knew about its existence, considering it would hardly be fair to force us into hiding without reason, but I don't know what it says. I never told Harry, because, for one, Dumbledore said I shouldn't, and, for two, I didn't know how to explain with my lack of knowledge. Obviously, I'd thought about saying something, but hadn't known how. And Harry's got Lily's temper, so I figured he might've gotten angry and done something . . . I don't know, bad, I guess."

Sirius looked a bit wounded. "And you never told us?"

"I didn't want you to slip up and tell Harry. And . . . how am I supposed to explain that sort of thing? That my own son was destined to overthrow the Darkest wizard of all time?" James looked away and gave a shrug. "Besides, I don't know the exact details."

Sirius went so say something else, but Remus cut him off. "I think James has his reasons. Let's just listen to what they've got to say, all right?"

Though a bit reluctantly it was, Sirius nodded and sat back, looking expectantly to Dumbledore.

"I would like to tell him, but, as you mentioned, he does have a temper." James felt himself bristle at the Headmaster's comment. He couldn't talk about Harry that way! He hardly even knew Harry, and nobody but Harry's guardians could talk about him that way!

Dumbledore, clearly unfazed by James's reaction, continued, "Also, the Ministry might get a hold of this information, which could be dangerous. They tend to think things through in a rather odd manner, and might wind up doing something that could be potentially dangerous to Harry.

"Harry, however, seems to have some kind of connection to Voldemort. Through his scar, I would assume, but you already know this. This could also prove to be bad for him, as, if he were to hear the prophecy, Voldemort may have access to it."

"I thought that Voldemort already knew the prophecy?" James said, ending it off as a bit of a question.

"Only a portion of it," Dumbledore acknowledged. "He overheard but a part of it, which was the part that made him believe Harry might be a danger to him."

James nodded. "So, you came here to explain that you don't think Harry should know about something that he hasn't had a chance to hear about yet, anyway?" His voice was slightly cold, but James didn't particularly like the way Dumbledore sometimes acted as though he knew what was better for Harry than James did, despite the fact that James knew Harry better than probably anybody else. They had a lovely relationship, and James sometimes wondered if it pleased Lily. After all, she'd always insisted that James would be a fantastic father, and now he and his son were quite close.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I came here to ask that you continue to hold your tongue on the matter. I wasn't sure whether or not you planned on telling him, but you always did seem to rather enjoy breaking the rules I've set."

Sirius stood up so quickly that his chair almost toppled over. "You want us to not tell Harry what the future has in store for him? To keep him in the dark? You can't just give excuses for not telling him about this! If I'd known about it, I would've told him myself by now!"

James shot Sirius a sharp look. "That would be even worse than _not _telling him! We don't actually know what the prophecy entails, exactly, and it would be wrong to tell him it exists but not tell him what it says!"

Remus nodded slightly, then turned back to Dumbledore. "But I do agree with Sirius. Perhaps you should stop here over winter break and explain—"

"Remus," Dumbledore interrupted, "I am afraid that simply won't do. As I mentioned, Harry's temper has been rather out of hand and thus I think it unwise—"

"Yours would be, too, if you had to live with to people's deaths!" James blurted, standing along with Sirius. "And the fact that the entire world seems to think you're a liar. And, to top it all off, people who won't bother to tell you the truth! I know you think you have his best interests in mind, but I think I know my son pretty well, and I know that this isn't what he needs. He needs the truth, and he needs it soon."

"James," Remus said quietly, setting on hand on his friend's arm, "it won't do you any good to yell."

"No? Are you sure? Because I'll be damned if there's another way to get through on this subject." James pointed an accusing finger at Dumbledore. "Harry doesn't need to be skirted around. He can take more than somebody with years more experience than him. He's dealt with terrible things, and if you don't think he can take hearing the truth, then you clearly don't know what's good for him."

"James," Dumbledore said, his voice calm, "I don't think that that Harry should be skirted around. I've known for years, many years, that he must know about this prophecy. But it had never seemed like the right time. It may have been years from the time that Harry began at Hogwarts that Voldemort rose again! As the years went on, I found that I just couldn't face it. And now it seems it is inevitable, of course, but I still don't think now is the right time."

"You should have told him when he was eleven," James said.

"It was the simple fact that he _was _eleven that I didn't!" Dumbledore insisted. "He was much too young to have to deal with that, and, even two years later, it still seemed as though he was. And I wouldn't have dreamed of telling him that after the events of last year!"

James, beginning to feel as though Dumbledore would not listen to any reason, said in a voice as polite as he could, "I think it would be best if you left now, Headmaster."

Sirius, seeming to understand that James would likely not budge on this, nodded. "I'll show you out," he offered.

Dumbledore stood, his robes swishing around his feet, but said no more. He was staring at James in wonder, as if he wasn't sure why James was so against not telling Harry anything all of a sudden. And maybe this was exactly the case, James thought; Dumbledore did not understand the way for which a parent cares for their child. Perhaps he did care for Harry, but he obviously didn't care in the same way that James or Sirius or Remus did. His intentions seemed rather unclear, however, and James didn't particularly want to deal with that. Dumbledore had always been quite, unfairly, bossy when it came to the way Harry was parented. This had been rather amplified in the past while, what with Cedric Diggory's death and Voldemort's "rebirth."

Remus turned to James as Dumbledore left the room, worry flashing in his eyes. "Do you think he'll tell Harry?"

James shook his head. "Why should he?" he answered bitterly. "Harry's not his responsibility."

"And you won't say anything to Harry?"

Again, James shook his head. "I don't know enough. I'd assume Dumbledore won't tell me because he thinks I'll tell Harry. And he's right, of course. I wouldn't hesitate to tell Harry if I knew everything, now that it's coming to a point where he needs to know."

Remus looked thoughtful as Sirius walked back into the room.

"Oh, by the way," James said to Sirius, suddenly remembering, "Harry's sent a letter." He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to Sirius, who read it over, a small smile making its way onto his face.

"Harry, a teacher! Imagine it!" Sirius chuckled.

"I think he'd be a wonderful teacher," Remus said. "He learnt to cast a corporeal Patronus when he was thirteen, didn't he? He obviously has some kind of talent in Defence."

James scoffed. "No mention of the fact that he's top of that class?"

"I just don't want it to get to your head." Remus shrugged, grinning.

"Hey!" James slapped his friend's arm. "Get to _my _head? I'm the most humble, modest person you've ever had the good grace to meet, Moony!"

"No, no, I'm afraid that that award goes to me," Sirius stepped in. "Besides, Moony likes me better."

"If I do say so myself," Remus said, "I would rather think you're _both _arrogant arses, and that I am obviously the most humble of the three of us. I, at least, know when to take things seriously."

James and Sirius frowned, then James said, "I think I'm a bit offended by that. I take quite a lot of things seriously."

Remus's gaze intensified. "Yes, but you aren't considering the dangers of letting Harry go through with something like this! He could get expelled!"

"Dumbledore wouldn't let that happen," Sirius insisted flatly. "If he really wants Harry to be the one to take down Voldemort, as it seems he does, then he won't expel Harry."

Remus grimaced. "Except that Fudge has a little spy in on the whole thing. She'll be Headmistress, if he can manage to get Dumbledore out of the position!"

James frowned. While they both had valid points, James was beginning to think that maybe Remus was right. While they knew well enough how to defend themselves against the Dark Arts, they surely couldn't teach Harry everything he would need to survive. And then there would be the pandemonium that would ensue when Harry wouldn't come back to school. Or the fact that he might be less safe here than at Hogwarts, although, given Harry's record, James figured that wasn't really much of an issue.

"And he needs to be more cautious about the things he puts in his letters," Remus added after a moment. "His mail could easily be intercepted at any time."

"Well, let's write him back, then, and tell him that."

Sirius handed the letter back to James. "You know," he said, "I'm starting to think that we should find a better way to communicate, you know? There's the Floo, but he told me off for using that last year, because of the chance that somebody might overhear. For someone who breaks so many rules," Sirius added in a grumble, "he sure is paranoid."

James took the letter, and stuffed it back into his pocket. "I suppose. Maybe we ought to do something else. But what is there? We could always talk in Hogsmeade, but it's not as if they do loads of trips a year . . ."

"Or maybe," Remus said, "we could just send letters, like we do every year, and be as discreet as possible when mentioning something beyond simple conversational topics. Otherwise, we can talk to him about other things over his breaks. We'll make sure he understands this as best he can through this letter, and hope he doesn't send anything that could potentially get him into trouble with _Dolores Umbridge_." He spat her name in obvious disgust, but neither Sirius nor James wanted to get into _that _conversation again.

"You always did have a one-track mind, didn't you, Moony?" Sirius grinned. "But I suppose you're right, as you always are."

"Ah, not always," Remus said dismissively. "Just most of the time."

"Yes, so modest you are," James drawled. "So humble and modest that we arrogant arses can't even begin to understand the meaning."

"Now you seem to be getting on the same page as me!" Remus exclaimed, beaming. He laughed a bit, then said, "Now, don't we have a letter to write?"

* * *

><p><em>Dear Harry,<em>

_I told you so! I'm always right, you know, Harry. I'd have thought you would have known by now. Maybe it's your father and godfather messing around with your views on me. But, of course, they won't admit to it, so I guess—_

_I think that's quite enough out of _him, _wouldn't you say? He's always been so arrogant, don't listen to him. Anyway, your dad and I think that Ron and Hermione are right. It would be helpful to you and your classmates, for sure, and you've always been one for your bloody heroics, haven't you? Take after your dad, he's always been a bit heroic, too. But, obviously, you're better at it than him. He didn't have the nerve to do this kind of thing!_

_Well! Harry, don't listen to him. I'm the most heroic person you'll ever meet. Anyway, we just want you to be careful, okay? Don't get involved with things that may cause you grief, and try to keep your words on certain things to a minimum. Also, good luck with detention. If you're lucky, you won't get too many more. Your homework this year will be brutal, what with your OWLs. You don't want to waste time with detentions when you could be doing your homework (though, of course, I would advise against both; neither are overly enjoyable)._

_Love,_

_Uncle Moony, Uncle Padfoot, and Dad._

Harry rolled his eyes. How typical of James to say that about his schoolwork. Surely Remus had had a fit when he'd seen what James had written. The fact that it hadn't been scratched out came as rather a surprise to Harry. Remus had always harped on him the most about school, and surely James's words had not resounded well with him at all.

And the detentions thus far had not gone well at all. Two weeks' worth of them had gotten him nowhere, apparently, and so Umbridge had seemed to rather have given up. There was no further her message could "sink in," was there? His hand was already beyond irritated and had been for what felt like ages. In the past few days, he'd found that it seemed to bleed with only the slightest amount of provocation towards it. Which, of course, was infuriating. Harry didn't need people asking what was up with his hand—Ron and Hermione had only found out because they'd forced themselves on Harry, rather ganged up on him, if he said so himself. They'd badgered him for a while, told him to tell Dumbledore or his dad or Sirius or Remus, but he had told them, forcefully, that he wouldn't. He would deal with Umbridge on his own. He wasn't overly fond of the idea of having his battles fought for him. It was something he couldn't face, having people stand between him and his problems. Not anymore; not since Cedric had died as Harry had watched, helpless.

Harry was always so angry, and he didn't know why. His scar hurt all the time, he wasn't sleeping the way he should've been, and, when he did sleep, he either saw his mum, Cedric, or the strange hallway he'd been dreaming of for a while, now.

So, it was with this, that McGonagall approached him that day.

"Potter," she said sternly as he was beginning to walk out of Tranfiguration, next to Hermione. "Stay back for a moment. I'd like a word."

Hermione glanced at him worriedly, but he shrugged and she didn't seem eager to press the matter further. Hermione seemed to know well enough when to give Harry his space, something for which he was grateful beyond words for—and something Ron could do well to learn.

"Yes, Professor?" Harry inquired as he made his way back to her. Though, somehow, he felt he knew where this was going, and he didn't like it at all.

She gave him a quick onceover and shook her head. "Potter, you need to do something with yourself. From what I've heard, of the small amount of time you've been able to make it to Quidditch practices"—this, Harry thought, was her trying to guilt him for his tendency to put himself into detentions—"you don't fly well. You are hardly managing to pass this class, along with others, I am sure, let alone keep yourself awake throughout the day."

Harry looked to his feet, hardly knowing what to say. Was she going to threaten him? What could she do, anyway? His guardians already knew about the fact that he couldn't sleep very well, and it wasn't as if Dumbledore was ever in much of a mood to speak to Harry lately.

"Potter, all I ask is that you do something to get yourself back up. Whatever it is you need will likely be available to you."

"Professor—," Harry attempted, but was cut off.

"It was mentioned, of course, that you're not coping well with certain things," McGonagall said, and Harry was quite amazed to find that the words did not offend him in the slightest. "And I don't blame you for it. I would, however, like to see the Quidditch Cup away from Professor Snape and I would really like to see you return to this class next year. As it is now, you're nowhere near either, and you need to do something about it."

"I-I know, Professor," Harry said, still not picking up his gaze. "I'm sorry," he added.

She shook her head, and, as Harry looked up incredulously as she spoke, he noticed the slightest of smiles on her face. "Sometimes, I truly see a lot of your mother in you."

At this, she turned around, and Harry took this as his dismissal. But even as he made his way to the common room to drop his stuff off before dinner, he could not get rid of the sudden lightness that had filled him at McGonagall's words. People had only ever told him that he had his mum's eyes. Hearing something else he had in common with her quite lifted his spirits, and he found that he was happier than he had been in a long time. He felt as though he hadn't genuinely smiled in ages, and while it did hurt his cheeks slightly, he'd never been so glad to have such a feeling return to him.

* * *

><p>The first Hogsmeade trip of the year brought them to the Hog's Head, where Hermione had decided they would meet potential members of the Defence Against the Dark Arts club—or whatever it was, Harry supposed it wasn't much of a "club." Harry had disagreed with her, told her that they would be less likely to be overheard in a crowded space, but she's insisted that she'd already said where they were meeting, and, besides, nobody actually went into the Hog's Head, anyway, so they wouldn't be overheard there, either. Harry knew from experience that arguing with Hermione meant only trouble, and he wasn't in a mood to argue, anyway; at least, that's what he said. He was actually just exhausted, having not slept well the night before what with the mounds of homework he had had (which, somehow, he'd managed to finish) and his complete stubbornness to <em>not <em>fall asleep and dream. Eventually, he figured he'd probably just pass out, and then maybe McGonagall, at least, would be pleased to see him not awake and moving around in a desperate attempt to stay awake.

How many people were there? Harry counted, and found that there were somewhere just above twenty. He'd never been very good, socially, and this kind of crowd unnerved him. And then, of course, amongst them was Cho Chang, Cedric's old girlfriend, for whom he felt an unmistakable amount of guilt when he looked her way. For one, he'd lusted after her boyfriend, hadn't he? And then he'd gone and let Cedric get himself get killed and not bothered to stop it in any way, _and _had the audacity to cry over his dead body. That was rather pitiful; he had hardly even _known _Cedric. Especially since, when the Hufflepuff boy had spoken, Harry had really paid more attention to his lips than to the words they'd spoken.

The people before him were silent as Hermione, the brave, brave girl she was, began to speak.

She spoke with such trepidation in the beginning, as everybody stared at her in uncertainty, but slowly found her voice growing more and more confident as the crowd began to nod along and smile with her words. Harry, however, was not reassured by the acts of the people before him. Did he even know all of them? Some of them were above his year, how was he expected to teach them anything they didn't already know?

Hermione finished speaking, and someone asked, timid, "And . . . and Harry would be teaching us?"

The voice belonged to Cho, Harry realized with a start. As her eyes met his, he felt himself go cold. Poor Cho. Harry had allowed Cedric to be taken from her like nothing, and now she was actually sitting here, wanting to be taught by Harry?

"Well, yes," Hermione said. "That was the idea."

"But why him?" somebody else asked. "He can't _prove _he actually did all those things since he started at Hogwarts, can he?"

Harry, not realizing fully that he was, stood and glowered at the boy who had spoken. "I can give you proof, if you wanted," he said as calmly as he could, despite the anger he felt radiating off of him. "But I'm not particularly fond of that idea, personally." He turned to Hermione and shook his head. "It's not as if anybody wants to be taught by me, Hermione; they all want to know about the things I've done."

"And they'll want to be taught by you once they understand what you've done!" Hermione said savagely.

"We already had this conversation!" Harry snapped. "I didn't _do _everything on my own! I always had help!"

The people around them seemed to shift, uncomfortable with the sudden arguing.

"What about the Triwizard Tournament?" Cho said quietly. "You got through all those tasks on your own."

"I didn't—"

"And you can cast a corporeal Patronus, can't you?" someone called out. "In the summer, you fought off Dementors with it, didn't you?"

Chatter bounced between the people as they suggested things that Harry had done, and Hermione—the terrible woman—had a gleam in her eyes that resembled the look she sometimes got when she got full marks on an assignment (which was quite often, and thus was a look Harry was all too familiar with).

"See, Harry?" She beamed at him. "They all know the things you've done! And you didn't always have help."

"Then I was lucky," Harry said hollowly. But, with Hermione's praise, he was suddenly reminded of McGonagall's words to him, and all the things he knew about Lily Potter. She'd been independent, brave, absolutely brilliant, so kind . . . He wasn't like that, was he? He'd never thought he could be, but sometimes people said things to him that made him question whether or not he was like his mother. And, deep down, he really hoped he was—but, also deep down, he knew he was somebody else, that he couldn't be like the beautiful, bright Lily Potter.

"So," Hermione said loudly, as to quell the voices beneath her, "who wants to join up?"

**Author's not two: **my apologies for lack of names of DA members' I don't exactly recall them all and I was stupid not to mark the pages in the book and really didn't fancy flipping through it again to find them. Also, this is an advance apology for any more inaccuracies. I tend to be lazy and not want to read through the book to find some things (I've started rereading them, to refresh my memory, but I'm starting from the back, and I'm only halfway through seven, so). Anyway, I'd appreciate reviews, favourites, and followers! Thanks for reading, and expect, hopefully, a new chapter soon.


	4. Chapter Three: Deny

**Author's Note:** so, this chapter is a bit draggy, I admit. Now, I'm really hoping to get more into the plot soon, as right now I'm trying to ease into these characters (Hermione being the most difficult for me, having her being so eerily similar to me; I'm having a rough time with the way we're so alike. If I'd not been so young when the did the casting for the movies, I would have made a stellar Hermione (if I could act, that is, but I can't, so clearly they made the right choice there)) and their relationships. I have an awesome plot in mind, but I don't know how to get into the action and such. So, for now, I'm afraid we'll have to deal with all the boring stuff in the beginning, here. My apologies.

And, with that, I bestow upon you, the next chapter . . .

**Chapter Three: Deny**

Draco Malfoy had never been more vile. In Harry's four years of knowing him, he'd never been quite as nasty as he had been since the beginning of the year, forward.

And yet, the meaner he got, the more Harry began to find himself wanting not to fight with him. It was an exhausted pattern: see Malfoy, have a verbal battle, usually wind up with lost points or detentions for both of them, and walk away, fuming. Maybe Harry and Malfoy's reasons for anger after their constant amount of arguments wasn't exactly the same, but they still always managed to rile one another up quite well.

Perhaps, with the return of Voldemort, Malfoy and his family had been thriving. Lucius Malfoy had been there, after all, in the graveyard—had watched Harry be tortured and _laughed _as it had happened. Harry sometimes wondered if Malfoy knew exactly what his father got up to as a Death Eater and decided that he probably didn't. Why be proud of a murderer? Aspire to be like a murderer? Draco Malfoy could be a cruel, sadistic arse, but he didn't strike Harry as somebody who had the courage to rip away somebody's loved one. He might not be trying to get that image of himself across, and maybe Harry had a bias based on physical appearance (because Harry had tried for years—and failed—to deny that Malfoy was attractive), but it didn't change the fact that that was what Harry thought.

"How could he bring something like that up?" Hermione bristled. "How indecent! I'm sure he wouldn't want to talk about something like that if he were in your position!"

"Well, that's just the point, isn't it?" Harry replied bitterly. "He's always been a hypocrite, Hermione, you know that."

"Yeah, but that doesn't give him the right to be so nasty about it!"

Harry, personally, was just tired. He couldn't care less if somebody brought up those that he'd let die, and Malfoy had never had any trouble making remarks about his dead mother, so he hadn't expected anything about Cedric to be difficult for Malfoy to talk about. Harry would, however, credit him with the fact that it had been around a month since school had begun and he'd managed to hold off on his smart remarks until now. Maybe Malfoy did know what the word empathy meant, if only slightly.

"It doesn't matter," Harry said. "Malfoy will be Malfoy, won't he? Besides, it's not as if I'm not used to it. And he says worse things to you."

"No he doesn't!" Hermione said indignantly. "Calling me a racial slur is a lot different than saying bad things about people who've died!"

Harry sighed. "Look, I don't _want _to argue with you, Hermione, let's just go eat, all right?"

"Oh, well, fine," she huffed. "But I still think you need to get Malfoy back somehow."

"Hermione, you've already mentioned to me that he's a prefect and that hexing people in the middle of a corridor isn't actually acceptable," Harry said wearily. "Stop contradicting yourself."

She opened her mouth to respond, then decided against that and made her way into the Great Hall. They sat down near Ron, who had come down before them, as Harry and Hermione had decided to be a bit more thorough when putting away their things. Ron, however, had claimed that he'd been too hungry to wait. He was always hungry, of course, but he normally waited for Ron and Hermione. Perhaps there had been something he had meant to do that they weren't intended to know about, Harry wondered suspiciously.

"You two sure took your time," Ron grumbled.

"We ran into Malfoy," Hermione explained.

Ron raised an eyebrow, his mouth being too full of food to get out a proper response. And, after four years of eating around Hermione, he knew better than to open his mouth with food in it. She had never much cared for people who spoke with full mouths.

"The same kind of things as always," Harry said dismissively.

"Well," Ron said, swallowing, "he's a git. Always has been."

Harry frowned, his immediate thought to defend Malfoy. But he pushed this down as quickly as he could. Malfoy didn't _deserve _Harry's defense, did he? No, he couldn't. Ron was right, he was a git . . . an attractive git, but a git, nonetheles . . .

"Harry, what's wrong?" Hermione prompted, gazing at him curiously.

Harry blinked. "Nothing," he told her hastily. "Nothing at all."

She eyed him in a disbelieving way, but didn't press him. She didn't press him anymore, ever. It was nice, to be able to relish in his own thoughts. Although, "relish" wasn't exactly the right word; more like wallow in them. Harry had been becoming increasingly more negative lately. But who could blame him? It wasn't his fault he was the most miserable person on the planet.

Another thing he'd begun doing: exaggerating things quite excessively. Or downsizing the meaning of things. It really depended on the situation.

Harry shook his head. "Honestly, Hermione, don't stare at me like that!"

"I-I'm sorry," she squeaked, obviously not expecting his anger. Harry was a bit unpredictable, emotionally. But he was fifteen years old, wasn't he? And he also didn't sleep enough. So, combined with all the rubbish the media thought about him, his mood swings were completely justified, if he thought about it. At least, he _told _himself they were justified. It helped to think that he couldn't control his anger when the guilt at having yelled at his friends came washing over him.

Harry didn't respond, and, as he turned to face towards the food on the table, Ron and Hermione shared a look. While Harry had clearly improved slightly since they'd established, properly, the DA, he was still not exactly normal. And, of course, Malfoy had set him on edge somehow . . . Hermione had been certain that he'd wanted to say something about Malfoy, if the look he'd worn at Ron's comment was anything to go on. It was odd, the way Harry sometimes reacted when Malfoy was brought up. It was almost like there were other feelings than hatred behind their relationship.

Hermione decided she'd rather not dwell on these thoughts. Malfoy and Harry had always had a weird rivalry, hadn't they? They were merciless when it came to each other, but there was something about the way they treated each other below that that was odd. Something that, Hermione thought, definitely went beyond hatred.

She cursed herself. She was dwelling on the thoughts she'd not wanted to dwell on.

"I'm not that hungry," Harry said decidedly, standing up. "And I've got loads of homework I still haven't done. I'll meet you upstairs."

Hermione made a noise of frustration as he left. "He could've waited for us."

"Give it a rest, Mione," Ron said exhaustedly. "He's not gonna come around anytime soon."

Hermione frowned. "We should write to his dad or something, then!"

Ron stared at her incredulously, then burst out laughing. "That's not going to help anything. Have you stopped to think about the fact that London is nowhere close to here and his dad can't do anything from so far away?"

Hermione bristled. "It's called sending a letter!"

"It's not as if you can put anything_ in_ a letter, Hermione. Umbridge has a close eye on all the mail that goes in and out, doesn't she?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"But there's nothing you can do." Ron shrugged. "Just leave it be."

Hermione turned to look at the Slytherin table, across the hall, not knowing what to say. All that she could recall was the way Harry had looked when Ron had said a bad word against Malfoy . . .

"Did you notice that, too?" Hermione asked suddenly, facing Ron once more.

He looked blankly at her. "What?"

"When we were talking about Malfoy, the way Harry looked . . ."

"What do you mean?"

Hermione sighed. "You don't pay enough attention to anything!"

"I do so!"

Hermione rolled her eyes, but said nothing. She would let Ron have his fantasies. Maybe one day he would be able to understand properly. For now, pretending seemed to be working well enough for him.

* * *

><p>It was one of those nights, where the temptation of crawling into bed had outweighed anything else. And so Harry had obliged and gotten into his four-poster.<p>

He would probably regret it in the morning, when he wasn't actually any better rested than usual, and he felt the leftover cold from nightmares still causing him to shiver and he felt like such a coward for being afraid of his own damn dreams, but for now, he couldn't focus on anything but sleep.

Sleep came quite quickly, too.

Unfortunately, so did the nightmares.

It started out like nothing, just empty space, but there was a sound, a slight sound, reverberating throughout the space in which Harry stood. That sound, the one Harry had never been able to get out of his ears since the moment he'd first remembered it. Lily's scream began quietly, and slowly became louder, and then she was not screaming, but talking, and she was there, as she had been in the graveyard that night. Except, as she regarded Harry, the only kind of illumination in the dark place they stood, she did not speak words of praise, of joy at seeing how brave her son was. No, she did not praise him; she instead looked disappointed. Her words were hardly distinguishable, but there were the slightest traces of a frown in them. She did not tell him that he was the son she had always wanted to raise, that she was so, so proud of him. She did not speak as she had in the graveyard.

And then the scene shifted, and suddenly he was watching as Cedric's body gave a slight spasm before dropping to the ground, the noise masked by Voldemort's voice, that cold, cold voice, demanding Pettigrew to bring him back to the form he once was.

Harry could feel it as clearly as if it were happened all over again, the pain of the Cruciatus Curse, and there was the wound on his arm from the dagger Pettigrew had dug into his skin, and his leg still ached from the maze, of course, but nothing could match the way it felt to be struck by the curse that caused its victims to feel the agonies of torture. It was terrible, to feel so helpless . . . Harry could only imagine what would have happened if Voldemort had not lifted the curse . . .

But he had, oh, thank the stars he had, and then everything else was blurry, but all Harry could think was that Cedric was an unmoving lump not too far away, and that Harry had done nothing and that it was _his _fault that Cedric had met the same fate that his mother had, and that it had, in all technicalities, been the same people. Voldemort and Pettigrew together. Harry regretted, so much, the way that he had allowed Pettigrew to get away. He'd _known _that that night was the full moon, and why would he rather see Pettigrew kissed than dead if he'd already spent the twelve years before in Azkaban? Why would he have said that he wasn't fond of the idea of him and Remus becoming murderers if it could've saved them both so much trouble? If it could've saved the Diggorys so much trouble, so much agony?

Harry gasped, sitting up straight in his bed. He was cold with sweat, and he felt dirty, tainted, like he'd never seen those scenes before yet they'd replayed inside his head for ages.

This one had not been that bad, considering the things his mind sometimes liked to show him, but Harry could still feel the pain that had come to him that night. Being tortured . . . his muscles still ached, and his head was pounding, and it felt as if he'd broken all of his bones, or maybe he had deep gashes across his entire body.

The scar on his arm, where Pettigrew had cut him, stung, and so did the scar on his forehead, as it had that night. Why did everything always seem to come back to the graveyard? Even this year he noticed it, in the way Hermione sometimes made offhanded comments on Cho looking at Harry, and how Harry thought, miserably, that she must _hate _him. He, of course, never caught the looks she gave him, but if Hermione was right in saying that she did focus at least some of attention to him, then he figured they were probably scathing looks. She'd likely not enjoyed the idea of being taught by Harry but was only doing it because he was more able to educate them than Umbridge was.

Harry took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. What time was it? It could hardly be that early, all the boys around him were fast asleep . . .

Placing his feet lightly on the floor, as to not disrupt anybody else, Harry tiptoed out of the dormitory. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do, but he knew he wasn't going to be going back to sleep anytime soon. Maybe he would go down to the kitchens or something . . . but it would be a wonder if he had any appetite to be found after witnessing, again those terrible scenes.

The couch in the common room seemed the best option. Nobody was still up, so it wasn't as if anybody would talk to him. It was, after all, one o'clock in the morning (at least, he thought that was what his watch had said).

But the silence was deafening, worse, perhaps, than the nightmares themselves. Harry was forced to sit, pondering these terrible things, and he could not stop the way his mind was making him think.

Harry really missed James, Sirius, and Remus. They always knew exactly how to deflect the things that were on Harry's mind. It was hard, of course, to get onto a topic that had little to do with Harry's own messed up life, but they managed. Harry wished he was not at Hogwarts. This was not something he wished for really ever, but now he hoped with everything in him that the next while would pass quickly, and it would be Christmas soon. He ached to go back to his dad. Sometimes it was nice to have James there to reassure him that there was nothing Harry couldn't tell his dad. James was a great listener.

He'd even listened the year before, after Harry had come out of that maze, in Dumbledore's office as he recounted the events that had taken place in the graveyard. He had not interrupted Harry, as Sirius had been close to doing a few times, and instead just kept an arm wrapped around his son as a silent comforter. And yet James did not hesitate to talk if he believed something to be wrong.

Sirius and Remus sometimes mused that James had changed a lot since their years in school. They said he'd been carefree then, and hadn't been very sensitive at all. Sirius had told Harry once, sadly, that he thought that Lily had changed James (in a good way, of course)—but that her death had changed him, too.

But everybody changed eventually, didn't they? Harry himself had changed a lot in the past year—even more so in the past five years. He'd come to Hogwarts a bit timid, sure, but he'd been happy. Now, he was not happy. Happiness seemed like a foreign thing at this point, really.

Maybe it always had been. Even at thirteen, Harry had drawn misery to him in the form of Dementors. He'd feared that, that terrible sadness that overwhelmed him when he saw a Dementor. Whether or not his Boggart would remain as that, he did not know; he doubted it had changed, though.

It was funny, Harry thought, that he was not afraid of death. It was a complete mystery. Perhaps it led to nothing, pure darkness, or maybe it led to a grand place where those who were celebrated dwelled. He didn't know. But it didn't matter, for death was merely something he looked to with curiosity. In all seriousness, Harry was more interested in the possibility of communicating with the dead. It seemed impossible, but Harry hoped that he may find a way, if only to cast aside the remaining doubts he had involving his mum and Cedric.

Why were the dead so far? Why did Death effect more people and not touch some at all? Why did people have to die in the first place?

He knew the answer to the last one, at least: because all good things must come to an end. Immortality would not be favourable, to have to sit back and watch as all those you've loved just died. Which, really, only meant that death was inevitable and that there was no escape from its greedy grasps.

Death, amongst many other things, was something that could never be avoided. There were other things like love and like sadness and like fear that could not be averted. But those things were things Harry could deal with, or could at least cover up with the pretense that he did not feel them. Death was not something that could be ignored.

And, as Harry would do well to learn, nor were love, sadness, and fear. Because emotions may seem like nothing, but, truly, they are everything—and there is no escape from the things that surround you.

* * *

><p>"Harry, don't be ridiculous." Hermione rolled her eyes. "How can you have missed it? She was all over you!"<p>

"I doubt that," Harry said, his tone a bit cool. This conversation was beginning to tire. Harry was getting sick of Hermione's constant reminder that Cho more than likely despised him.

"She looks at you all the time, Harry!"

"What reason would she have for that, Hermione?" he demanded. "I don't reckon—"

"You're so thick!" Hermione said impatiently, cutting him off. "Harry, she _fancies _you!"

Harry paused, his mouth still open, then, realizing what Hermione had said snorted. Ron, too, who had been watching the conversation in a rather un-Ron-like silence, gave a small chuckle.

This, Harry thought, was new. Hermione had been hinting at something along the lines of this for ages, but she'd never flat-out said it. Now that she had, Harry found he was rather amused with her thought. Cho, fancying Harry? That was a laugh. _Besides, _if she'd noticed Cho starring at Harry, then how had she missed Harry starring at Draco Malfoy's perfect figure? Maybe they were always too busy arguing with each other for Hermione to notice the way Harry looked after Malfoy when he strutted through corridors or off the Quidditch pitch or . . .

_No, _he told himself forcefully. _Malfoy might have a bloody nice arse, but he's always a git and you don't like anything other than his arse and there are other men with nice arses out there._

"Hermione," he said after a moment, "you don't think I'd _realize _something like that, do you?"

"No, I don't!" she said indignantly. At Harry's look of disbelief, she said, "No, really, Harry, girls are confusing! I wouldn't expect you to understand. But she can't take her eyes off you, ever, and she so clearly fancies you!"

Harry blinked. Yes, girls _were _confusing. He'd been friends with Hermione for years, and while she might have been a bit more bookish than more girls, it didn't change the fact that she _was _a girl, and she _was _confusing. But he'd always told himself he wouldn't need to figure out girls, because he didn't want to get involved with a girl beyond friendship, and that was a bit of a different kind of understanding, wasn't it? As far as Harry knew, girls were pretty scary when it came down to romance . . .

"She is pretty, mate," Ron piped up.

"She'd not my type," Harry replied flatly.

"Come on, Harry, don't try and pretend you weren't looking at her during the Yule Ball last year! I noticed it the whole time, when she and Cedric were dancing, you couldn't take your eyes off of them!"

But that hadn't been for _her_; he'd been watching Cedric. One thing Harry had come out of that night knowing was that Cedric was a bloody good dancer and that he was certainly humble and gentlemanly and knew how to treat a lady. He and Cho had been such a good-looking pair that Harry had had a difficult time actually being jealous. They'd been beautiful together, and Cedric had made up in dancing skill where Cho had clearly lacked.

"Maybe," he said quietly, "I just thought they were good dancers."

Ron snorted from beside Harry, but one look at the way Harry was looking shut him up. Harry was actually quite serious, and even Ron (who lacked certain social skills, such as empathy) was able to pick up on it.

"She wasn't that good of a dancer, though," Hermione mused. "He covered that up, but . . ."

"Your point?"

"Well, _Cedric _was a good dancer. Harry, stop pretending that you're serious about this, you were definitely looking at—"

"I can assure you," Harry shot back icily, surprisingly calm despite the anger that seemed to have settled deep within his stomach, "that I _wasn't _looking at _her._ I really don't give a damn if she fancies me or not, and you're right, Cedric was the better dancer out of the two of them."

Hermione blinked, and opened her mouth, the, appearing quite flustered, closed it again.

Ron was looking equally as shocked, although this seemed to be more the fact that Harry had managed to render Hermione speechless than anything else.

"You . . . you . . ." Hermione looked utterly lost.

She stared at him for another moment, before she began to mutter, "I'm so stupid! I should've realized . . ." She turned up to Harry and burst out with, "Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry! I never realized! I'm so sorry!"

Harry blinked. "Hermione, I don't know what you mean."

"I had it backwards the whole time, didn't I?" She looked down sadly. "It wasn't Cho you were looking at."

Harry _knew _then that she'd had her suspicions for a while, especially after dinner the other night, when she'd been looking at Harry oddly, and she was only now saying anything because he had so obviously proven her suspicions and maybe he should've been less obvious, but it almost felt nice to get it off his chest . . . Sirius teased him all the time about the blokes at school, sure, but it just wasn't the same. He did not feel overly comfortable with the fact that Draco Malfoy's body was hauntingly beautiful—which, Harry had noticed, always looked so lean and muscular when he leaned over something (although, Harry only really saw him lean over anything in Potions, when he was tending to something within his cauldron). However, if he did not feel comfortable sharing this information with Sirius or Remus or James, then he doubly didn't want to indulge Ron or Hermione with it. For one, Ron had said so himself that Malfoy was a git . . . and he'd called Hermione such profane things . . .

He decided to act dumb. What better way to quell Hermione's curiousity than to refuse to accept the things she was saying.

"Hermione, I don't understand what you mean."

She turned to Ron, looking helpless, but the ginger boy appeared to be quite lost. He hardly seemed able to follow the conversation—it was like Hermione and Harry shared some secret they hadn't mentioned to him. Which, Ron thought with a surge of some emotion he couldn't exactly place, might very well be true. It wasn't as if many people bothered to let him in on secrets, did they?

"Harry, don't be stupid!" she said shrilly. "You do know what I mean, you know perfectly well—"

"And even if I do?" he interrupted, regarding her rather coldly. "I really don't think it's your business, Hermione."

And he stood up, shaking his head. "Look, it's late. We should really go to bed if we want to get up in the morning, don't you think?"

Ron jumped up at the offer, nodding in hurried agreement, leaving a dazed Hermione behind.

She watched Harry's retreating form, and realized that she'd known for a long time, and so had he, and they had never talked about it because neither of them had wanted to face it—and apparently Harry still didn't want to.

But . . . no, that couldn't be . . . Harry had defended Malfoy earlier, but . . . No, not Malfoy. Harry _hated _Malfoy; _Malfoy _hated _Harry_. It didn't add up. It just didn't work.

And yet it fit so perfectly, like the final pieces of a puzzle. A puzzle that had taken years for even Hermione to figure out. It fit so perfectly, and that was so wrong, because Harry could not possibly _like _a single thing about Draco Malfoy. He was arrogant, on the track to being Dark, and downright mean. Malfoy said bad things about Harry's own dead mother, about Cedric, who, now that Hermione thought, had been someone Harry had rather looked at a lot. Malfoy was an arse, had always been . . .

Hermione sighed. She did not want to think about this. She did not want to fight with Harry. Yet she _needed _to know. It would drive her insane if she didn't find out . . . so she would start in the simplest of places: James Potter. If anyone knew about Harry's preferences, it would be James, wouldn't it? Hermione would find out all about Harry's internal sufferings if it was the last thing she did. She _was _his friend, of course.

And friends helped friends, didn't they?

_Yes, _she told herself, _they do. I will._

She would. No matter what it took.

**Author's Note Two: **oh, Hermione's so badass. I love her. Anyway, apologies again for the boring chapter and the boring ones before this one. Please, please review. I love feedback. Any kind of feedback. Tell me I'm a bad writer, if you want! I don't care, but I'd _love _to see some words from my readers (I do believe it's quite possible to leave guest reviews on my stories, if you don't want me to know who you are). Also, my thanks to my one continuous reviewer! I don't want to accidentally type your username wrong, so I won't even try (my computer's really slow and it would take hours to get anywhere, considering I'm not near my tablet, which runs much faster), but you know who you are. So, thanks! I really, really appreciate it (and, just between us, you're totally my favourite person _ever_).


	5. Chapter Four: Admission

**Author's note: **this took ages to get up! I'm terribly sorry for that. I've been sick, and a bit behind in my homework (I sort of still haven't finished my book report, but I suppose I have a few weeks now-my teacher can't chase me over Christmas break!). And, speaking of Christmas break, I've loads more time to write. However, I have a book of short stories I need to finish (which I only get inspiration for once in a while, but now I want to write it so . . . I must answer the calling) and a novel that I'm only about a quarter way done that I'd like to finish by March. So, in short, it means you can't expect a lot of updates. I will update, but my priorities lie somewhere else. Anyway, this is the longest chapter yet, so I hope it gives you enough to live with until I get around to updating again.

**Chapter Four: Admission:**

"You know, I love Christmas," Sirius said conversationally.

"Oh, yes, we know," Remus grumbled. "We've had to live with your gaudy decorations for sixteen years, you know. I still don't know why James and Lily let you decorate their place once they were married."

"It was always Lily's idea," James put in miserably. "And then Harry liked them on his first Christmas, so every year since, Padfoot's taken that as a sign that it was okay."

"I didn't get yelled at," Sirius said cheerfully. "Besides, I was just trying to make up for ten really terrible Christmases."

"But it's been twenty years," James said tiredly. "My mum and dad should've never let you help them decorate, though. That way, you wouldn't have learnt much about decorations."

"Now, James, I'm hurt." Sirius put a hand over his heart dramatically. "Harry likes my decorating, so why don't you two?"

"I'm not sure Harry likes it much, either," Remus said. "You know, it must be pretty infuriating when he comes home and can't go anywhere without being tangled up in tinsel or something. And you don't even do it orderly. You could at least use magic to put it somewhere less dangerous."

"Ah, no, the Muggle way is great! It's amazing that there are people who actually do put up all their decorations with magic, when it's so much more fun to do it by hand."

Remus and James snorted.

"Also, my mother hates it. Didn't you hear the way she was screeching at me in the hall?" Sirius plowed on, his eyes glowing joyously. "She threw a right fit when she realized I wasn't using my wand."

"She throws a fit over everything," Remus pointed out.

"Yes, but it's so nice to have her angry again. I never quite realized how much I liked riling her up until I didn't have that anymore. It's better now, because all she can do is yell! She's just a picture!" Sirius laughed, and Remus noticed with a shock that his eyes filled with something that was not joy. It was something else, something terrifying. A dangerous glint that he used to get in his eyes when he talked about his parents and the way they treated him.

"Sirius," Remus said quietly. "They're dead. They can't do anything to you anymore."

"But they're managing, aren't they? Maybe they're dead, but it doesn't change the fact that this was the safest house for the Order and now I'm being forced to live her again because it's the safest place for us. I never came back here for a reason, and that was so I wouldn't have to remember the way he hit me while she yelled." He took a shaky breath. "I always liked getting under skin. I would've gone to any measure to be different from them. They _had _a perfect son, and they still were convinced that I needed to be just like they'd hoped I would be. They wanted me to be like just like Regulus, but he's dead, too, now, isn't he? He wasn't bad at all to me, but they pushed him into this terrible thing because they _wanted _him to be a bloody Death Eater!"

"Sirius!" Remus snapped. "Stop it!"

Sirius blinked and sat down heavily, looking blankly at Remus.

"You don't even know what you're saying anymore," Remus said exasperatedly. "Regulus made his decision, Sirius, and you made yours. Your parents aren't here anymore, and James always said that his parents considered you to be like a son of their own. Stop worrying about them. They're gone now, and they won't hurt you."

"It's not as if I can exactly stop myself from remembering them," Sirius muttered angrily.

"And we don't expect you to," Remus told him.

"Do you remember that time, right after you moved in with us," James spoke up, "when you said something—I'm not even sure what it was, now—and my mum laughed at it?" He was gazing at Sirius oddly now, as if he were picturing a sixteen-year-old Sirius, who had put his arms up in defence whenever somebody raised their hand nearby him. "You were so surprised, and she was really angry when you told her why. She dropped her teacup, I think."

"She put her teacup back together, though," Sirius said weakly. "She said it was from her favourite set."

"But she wasn't mad that you'd said something that made her drop it," James pressed.

"My mother would've been livid, if I'd ever even been in the same room at the time that something broke."

"But my mum wasn't. She always said that we'd be your family instead, that we had room for one extra all the time."

"Well, yes, that is typically how people manage a runaway child," Sirius said dryly.

James rolled his eyes. "Before that. From the time when you first came over Christmas and on. She always said you were great kid. I told her different, of course, but—"

"You said bad things about me to your mother?" Sirius laughed. "Wow, I knew you were low sometimes, but—"

"Ah, I only said you were the reason I got detentions sometimes."

"Well, surely she couldn't believe that!"

"She didn't, but I never gave up on trying to make her." James rolled his eyes. "She loved you. It was sometimes weird, actually. She usually believed everything I told her."

"Well, figures. She always did seem easy on you when you did something she didn't like."

"I'll have you know I'm a fine actor," James huffed. "She always believed me."

"Until she talked to your dad."

"Well, he just wasn't as trusting as her."

"No, he just knew you were a terror of a child."

James snorted. "Like you weren't."

"At least I can accept I was."

"I just don't want anybody to know that my mum thought I was better behaved than I was. It probably would make her happier."

"That doesn't even logically make sense."

James scoffed. "You don't make a lot of logical sense, either, so I'd just shut up."

"Oh, what a great comeback."

"Well, at least it wasn't as bad as your Christmas decorations."

"Way to hit where it hurts, James."

"He's right, though," Remus said thoughtfully. "Your decorations are awful."

"Well! It's not _my _fault—"

"Do you hear that?" Remus interrupted sharply.

Sirius paused, and listened for whatever it was Remus had heard. And, yes, he did hear it: the drawl of Phineas Nigellus Black from the room upstairs, where his portrait hung. Sirius blinked, a bit alarmed. He remember how Dumbledore had told him that he could not, by any means, remove the portrait, for Phineas Nigellus may need to relay important messages between Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place.

"I'll be back," he promised, before rushing up the stairs.

Remus stared after him, frowning. He turned to James. "What do you think is wrong?"

James wore a similar look, although he seemed to have paled drastically since Sirius had run off. "I don't know." But even if James said no more, Remus could hear the unspoken _What if something's happened to Harry? _hanging in the air.

They sat in silence for only a moment before Sirius came back down, appearing a bit shell-shocked. He blinked at the two of them, gazing back at him expectantly, then said slowly, "Arthur's been injured."

"Is that all?"

Even Remus could tell the relief, though mixed with worry, in James's tone easily, but he somehow suspected that James hadn't meant to sound relieved. Remus couldn't blame him, though: it seemed as though Harry was all right.

Sirius shook his head. "Dumbledore's sending the Weasley children and Harry here."

"Harry? Why?" James demanded.

"I don't _know,_" Sirius snapped. "We'll just have to find out when they get here, won't we? It's not as if he thinks much to tell me anything. I'm not even on the family tree anymore, so, in all technicalities, I'm not a Black anymore!"

"Sirius, settle down," Remus advised. "We'll wait until they come and we'll get an explanation then."

It was soon when the five of them arrived, too, by Portkey. Fred, George, and Ginny were looking rather confused, but Ron and Harry looked quite distraught.

James leaped up, whether in surprise or because he wanted to grab his son, Remus wasn't sure.

Behind Remus, he heard Kreacher the house-elf mutter something and Sirius, flustered, yell at him to get out. Remus didn't pay much attention to it, focussed more on the five teenagers before him.

"What's happened?" Remus asked. "We got Dumbledore's message, but—"

Fred, George, and Ginny were all looking similarly confused. Fred turned to Harry. "Yeah, I was wondering the same thing."

Ginny and George nodded their agreement and Harry shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

"I—I had a . . . a vision, I guess." He swallowed, and looked up to face the Weasleys. Remus realized, as he continued to speak in his slightly choked voice, about Voldemort's snake and how it had attacked Arthur (in, Remus knew, the Department of Mysteries—although Harry was obviously unaware of this, Remus, Sirius, and James knew—and knew what _in _the Department of Mysteries was being guarded, too, Remus remembered grudgingly).

As he finished explaining about how Arthur had been injured, James took him gently by the arm and led him to a chair. He said something to Harry, but Remus didn't quite catch it, as he turned to face the four Weasleys.

"Come and sit down," Remus said, beckoning them to some of the chairs.

They sat down, a bit hesitantly, before Fred asked, "Is Mum here?"

Remus shook his head, glancing sideways at James and Harry, who sat listening awkwardly. "Dumbledore will probably talk to her soon. He's probably telling her now."

"We should be at St. Mungo's," Ginny spoke up. "Can you get us there?"

"Absolutely not," Sirius said. "How, do you suppose, we would explain you knowing what's happened to your father when his own wife hasn't even been alerted yet?"

"That's easy for you to say," George retorted angrily. "That's not _your _dad dying in there!"

Remus noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Harry turn away slightly, and decided that Sirius could handle the Weasleys. He sat down next to Harry and James, without a word, and put his hand on Harry's shoulder.

The twins, it seemed, were not pleased with Sirius's refusal to allow them to go and see their dad. This was understandable, of course, Remus thought. He figured if he were seventeen and he wanted to see somebody in the hospital, he wouldn't want somebody stopping him from going there. Ginny was a bit more calm than her brothers, and Ron just seemed to be completely out of it. He wasn't normally so quiet, but he kept glancing oddly at Harry, and Remus found himself wondering if, maybe, he was feeling some trepidation at the fact that his best friend had just witnessed his father being attacked.

Sirius summoned drinks, once he'd gotten the twins to see eye-to-eye with him, and they sat in silence, awaiting news of some sort.

It did not take too long, before they received a message from Molly. Apparently, Arthur was not dead—but he clearly was not all right.

Harry was looking quite pale, and Remus suspected he probably did not want to sit in this room while the family before him sat in a silent vigil for their father. He, too, was feeling slightly intrusive, and one look at Sirius and James told him they were thinking in a similar way.

James, though . . . James looked the worst, it seemed. It was odd, because he didn't know Arthur that well at all, but, then, maybe it was the parallels between this moment and the moment when he'd lost Lily. It both scenarios, Voldemort had been involved somehow . . . and Harry . . . and there was the fact that, if Arthur were to pass, he'd be leaving behind his partner and children—the way Lily had left behind her husband and her son.

However, Harry looked pretty ill, too, but this could be because he had his own experiences with loss, and now he was watching as his best friend was forced to face the fact that, maybe, his father was going to die, too, the way Lily Potter had all those years ago. It also didn't seem to help that Harry had witnessed the event—this, it seemed, had been extremely difficult for him to explain.

With a few words here and a few words there being the only thing to break the silence, they all stayed awake throughout the night. It was early in the morning when Molly came bursting in.

"He's all right," she reassured her children as they looked up at her sharply. "He's sleeping now. Bill's with him."

The room seemed to become lighter with these simple words, and Sirius said, "Well, breakfast, then, don't you think?"

He called for Kreacher, but made his way to the kitchen when the house-elf did not appear and began to prepare the meal himself. Molly rushed to his aid, knowing it would take him a while to cook for nine when he'd only ever cooked for four at the most (although, Remus admittedly had quite the appetite near full moons, and Harry _was _a growing teenage boy).

It seemed only minutes later that Molly and Sirius brought food out for all of them. Nobody seemed to want to eat much, and it didn't look as if Harry touched his food at all. Remus figured it would be best not to press this. While the Weasleys had been reassured greatly by their mother's appearance, it seemed as though Harry had only been slightly, and he still appeared very pale.

Molly ushered her own children to bed, and James turned to Harry. "You should sleep, too."

He blinked, then shook his head. "No."

Remus frowned. "You need to."

"I don't." Harry's voice sounded almost panicky, at this point, and his fingers were shaking madly. They had been all night, Remus thought. He'd noticed that before, when Harry had held anything, his hand would shake.

"You won't see anything else," Sirius told him confidently, as he stood behind Harry's chair.

"You don't know that."

"But what are the chances of it?"

"I still don't want to sleep," Harry said stubbornly. "Besides, I'm not actually tired, so it's not a big deal."

"Harry—"

"_No,_" he said with finality. "You don't understand." His voice grew quiet. "I didn't just _see _the attack. I _was _the snake. _I _attacked Mr. Weasley. And even after I'd woken up, I wanted to attack Dumbledore, too."

Remus felt his throat go dry. He could recall, just after Lily had died, Sirius asking him to come and help James and Harry. Sirius had explained everything, and he'd explained what Dumbledore had said about Harry's scar . . . curse scars would have side effects. It could not be helped. And yet Remus could not swallow how anguished Harry looked at the prospect of having been Voldemort's snake.

James stared blankly at his son, then seemed to snap out of whatever weird thought had been holding him down. "Harry, it's all right. It's not your fault. You didn't do anything."

"But I—"

"—have no reason to be upset about this," Sirius finished for him. "Your dad's right: it isn't your fault."

"But just _say _that I had something to do with it," Harry insisted. "Because what if I did? What if—"

"There's no way," Remus said flatly. "Harry, what would you expect? If you hadn't fallen asleep, you might not have seen this? If you hadn't seen it, it might not have happened? Because it still would've, I assure you. And Arthur would likely not have made it. If you hadn't seen this, Arthur would likely not have been found until it was too late."

"Don't blame yourself," James told him softly. "You couldn't have changed anything. It's not your fault."

Harry was silent for a moment, looking down at his hands. "I'm not tired, though," he said.

Sirius looked like he wanted to argue, but James said, "Then don't sleep."

Harry nodded, but when James, Sirius, and Remus didn't move, he raised an eyebrow. "Well? You've been up all night, too."

"And who says we're tired?"

"Well, you probably are."

Remus shrugged. "I think you probably are, but that doesn't matter."

Harry sighed, but didn't say anything else on the matter. Instead, he said, "I see you've been decorationg for Christmas."

Sirius's eyes gleamed. "Yes, isn't it nice? I wanted to set up a tree, but I thought it would be more fun to have you help decorate."

Harry frowned, but said nothing. He wasn't sure he was overly up to decorating anything . . . not after it had been he who had decorated Mr. Weasley in blood.

_No, that wasn't me, _he told himself. _I'm not a snake . . . I'm not a snake . . ._

He felt suddenly sick. Why was it that _he _was the one to go through all these things? Why was it that _he _had a dead mother? Why was it that _he _had a scar on his forehead? And now he had somehow managed to get inside that snake's body. He was an oddity, wasn't he? Try as they might to tell him otherwise, Harry knew his guardians could never convince him that he as normal as Ron or Hermione.

"Do you not want to decorate?" Sirius looked a bit devastated at the possibility, but he hid it well; Harry simple knew because he had known his godfather since he had been a baby, so these things were a bit more apparent to Harry than to some other people.

"No, I just—sorry, I was just a bit distracted," Harry hastily explained. "I've helped you every year, what makes you think I wouldn't this year?"

"Ah, well, you're just nearing the age where I ran away from home." At Harry's incredulous look, he said, "No, I don't expect you to run away! It's just that I remember being pretty rebellious at your age. Enough so to run away."

"But what's that got to do with anything?"

James frowned. "I think every teenager goes through that rebellious stage, Sirius. Most of them don't run away."

"Yes, well, I wouldn't advise it. They've learned since I did it."

"No, I think it's more the fact that people have better families now," Remus said.

"Nah, all those big pureblood families are like mine were, Moony."

"Mine weren't!" James protested.

"_Most _of them," Sirius amended. He turned to Harry again. "Your grandmother was the sweetest thing. She was probably a bit too lenient with a certain somebody, though." He gave James a pointed look.

"Ah, well, guilty as charged," he said with a small laugh. "But she wasn't exactly strict with you, either, Padfoot dearest."

"Yes, but I wasn't her child." He rolled his eyes. "You can't discipline somebody else's kid."

"I don't know. Out of the three of us, I'd say Moony's probably the strictest, don't you think?"

"Oh, leave me out of this." Remus scowled, then turned to Harry. "Come on, let's go make some tea while these two sort themselves out."

Harry smiled a bit, then, but it immediately vanished as guilt washed over him. He could not smile and pretend that he hadn't seen what he had through the eyes of that snake. He could not simply shake everything away.

He followed Remus into the kitchen, knowing that the days to come would be impossibly long.

* * *

><p>It was two days later when Hermione arrived.<p>

James had always found Hermione as the Remus in Harry's group of friends. She was quite brilliant, and she always seemed to help Harry and Ron in their studies. It was a good thing to have her, as she seemed to be a bit more level-headed than the boys, and seemed to normally be the one directing them at Hogwarts. Actually, she reminded James a bit more of Lily. But James could see the apparent differences in them, and did not have any issues with Hermione in the least.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," she greeted.

"Good to see you, Hermione," James said with a smile. "I'm sure you remember which room you stayed in this summer?"

"I do. I think I'll go put my things away for now." She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then she said, "But, if you wouldn't mind, I've been wanting to ask you something."

James blinked. "No one's stopping you from asking," he told her.

"Right, well, it's just . . ." She looked at her hands. "I was wondering about . . . about Harry."

"What about him?"

"Well, it's just . . . he has girls falling left, right, and centre for him, yet he's never had a girlfriend before, and, well, I was thinking about it and . . . is Harry . . . gay?" Her voice was small, as if she felt it a betrayal to ask the question and hoped nobody would hear her. And James, frankly, figured she probably thought right.

"Hermione, I think you really ought to ask Harry about things like that," he said. "It's not exactly fair to talk behind his back."

Her cheeks turned rosy. "Right. Sorry, I'll just go and put my things away."

She turned without another word and pretty much ran up the stairs. James frowned after her, wondering if he'd done the right thing. Should he have told her the truth? Or lied to her? _No, _he thought, _that wouldn't exactly be fair.  
><em>

But, still, she probably would've been able to tell simply from his answer and tone of voice.

James had had his time of ignorance. Those were his school years, when he felt himself above everybody else. It had been Lily who had forced him into somebody else—somebody better. He'd been young and foolish, too, but that had been before he'd been casted into a war and had found someone he loved and had started a family. Now that family was not the one he had started out with, but he still knew he wouldn't be anywhere without Sirius and Remus. It would have been a lot easier with Lily, but he knew she was probably pretty happy with their family, even now.

Harry, however, had not been himself in the past few days. James knew why, of course, but he had no clue how to comfort Harry with something like this. It was one thing to help with the memories of the dead, but it was another to help with this. Every time James thought about, his mind went back to Dumbledore and his damned prophecy. Harry needed to know—and soon, too.

Hermione, meanwhile, had made her way upstairs. After she had placed her things in the room she would be sharing with Ginny, she'd spoken with Ron and Ginny. They'd caught up Hermione up on what had happened, and said they figured Harry was in the drawing room, if she wanted to speak to him.

So Hermione made her way to the drawing room, where Harry and Buckbeak, the hippogriff that Sirius had taken in for Hagrid after it was sentenced to execution (this had been a very intricate set-up that, quite surprisingly, Dumbledore had arranged himself, involving a Sirius in Animagus form to come to Hogwarts and set Buckbeak free while the discussions of his execution were going on, but that was a story for another time).

"Harry?" she asked cautiously, knocking on the door. A few seconds of silence passed, and she gave an inward sigh of exasperation. "I _know _you're in here."

She opened the door, not caring much if he wanted to see her or not, and stepped inside, closing it gently behind her.

"I thought you were supposed to be skiing," Harry said, turning to face her. "What are you doing here?"

Hermione smiled wryly. "I'm not overly interested in skiing, if I'm perfectly honest. I told my parents I was staying at Hogwarts, to study." She sighed. "Dumbledore told me what happened. How are you?"

"Oh, I don't know," Harry said, a bit snappish. "How would you feel if you were dreaming about being a snake, Hermione? I'm just great, though. Absolutely peachy."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said. "That was insensitive."

Harry let out a small breath and sat down on the floor. "It's a bit stupid to think that it's my fault. Everybody said that it was good that I'd seen it, because Mr. Weasley might've died if I hadn't. But it just feels like it was my fault, like _I _was the one who attacked him. And I keep replaying that scene in my head, and each time I see it, the more I think that it's _my _fault."

"Harry, it would've happened anyway." Hermione sat down beside him, frowning as he shook his head and gave a short mirthless laugh.

"And to think I went to sleep that night feeling guilty because I rejected Cho."

Hermione blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said." He turned to face her blankly. "I rejected her. After that last DA meeting, she was talking to me, and I don't know exactly how it happened, but she kissed me, and I just kind of . . . pushed her away."

"Why? Why push her away?"

"Because you were right." Harry looked down at his hands. "I mean, I told her that I wasn't interested in her romantically, but I didn't give a reason. I probably hurt her, but . . ."

"But you would've hurt her worse if you'd lied," Hermione finished. "She'll understand eventually."

"I don't think it would've been fair to lead her on, but some part of me _wanted _to. You know, to be a normal person with a normal girlfriend. But that's not who I am. And I wouldn't want to burden anybody like that."

"I think you did the right thing. She's already crying all the time, these days. You wouldn't want to give her any other reasons to be upset."

"I think I did, though."

"But it would've been worse if you'd led her on."

Harry exhaled deeply. "You're right. But I don't really want to talk about this, Hermione. Not now."

"Are you sure?"

"I don't really want to talk about much of anything, actually."

Slowly, Hermione nodded. "All right. But let's get off this dusty old floor."

For a moment, neither of them moved. And then, Harry said, with a small laugh, "Actually, maybe I would like to talk."

"Indecisive, indecisive," muttered Hermione, but she smiled and said louder, "Okay. Talk, then."

"I thought you'd be mad," Harry admitted. "I'm not sure why you'd be mad—maybe because I never told you, or because I could . . . I don't know, get involved with the wrong person—but it was what I thought. It was a stupid fear, but it overtook me. That's what fears do, take people over. It's why I haven't slept properly in ages. It's why I don't usually talk about things.

"I realized when I was thirteen, of course. I told three people—my dad, Sirius, and Remus"—Hermione started at the use of their first names; Harry often didn't refer to his dad's best friends by their first names, but rather their nicknames—" and they didn't have any issue with it. I don't know why I thought you and Ron would. Maybe I was just afraid that it would circulate, that other people would find out. The media would eat that up, you know? I didn't want to go from the 'Boy Who Lived' to the 'Boy Who Liked Boys.'" He gave a small snort, but it didn't seem to be from humour.

"See, people already expected things from me. I was supposed to be powerful, someone who would look like the kind of person who would overthrow Voldemort. All I really was was a boy who hadn't ever really had any friends other than the people who'd raised him. A boy who couldn't let go of the fact that his own mother was dead. I'd been so isolated for the beginning of my life that I hadn't expected the stares to be quite so terrifying. I'd never really been in public enough to notice, and I was young and was always so immersed in something else that I didn't pay attention. And my dad tried to protect me from it, but he couldn't protect me forever. Eventually, I noticed. That was right before I got on the train to Hogwarts for the first time. I was so nervous that I noticed every single person watching me. They were watching for something special. So I tried to be normal and blend in. The attention was terrible, so I wouldn't do anything to draw too much attention to myself.

"I suppose that was just a dream, though. It's hard to avoid something you attract so much, and I attracted a lot of attention. Everything I do seems like a cry for the attention, but I would be perfectly happy to live without it.

"Then, last year, I couldn't do anything about Cedric. It was like I'd failed so terribly, and yet I was still being forced to go on. It's stupid, but I was pretty wrecked about it. I wished it had been me instead, that he hadn't died. I really only got myself out of there because Cedric wanted his body returned. I would have stayed there and let Voldemort take me down, if I hadn't promised him.

"And now it's like I'm attached to Voldemort in this weird way. It's like he's taken complete control of me and I can't do anything about it. And everybody _thinks _I'm going mad, that I'm not normal. That's all I ever wanted, and I _still _can't get it. Why would I want to give them any other reasons to think I'm not normal? Why would I want them to know that, on top of being famous because I did something nobody else has ever done _and _watched my own mother die _and _watched a classmate die, I'm also not _straight_?"

Hermione swallowed, averting her gaze from Harry's, which had lifted up to face her, asking a question deeper than the ones he had just said aloud, that he daren't utter:

_What do you think?_

"Harry," she said gently, setting a hand on his shoulder, "you make your _own _path. Maybe nobody will see you as normal, or like them, but it's what _you _see that matters. And right now your vision is clouded, and you won't let anybody wipe away the fears and the assumptions that are making it hard to see. I think you need to be the one to wipe them away, but you're afraid of what you'll see on the other side. And you need to brave. You've been brave before, Harry."

"No," he whispered, "I haven't. There are so many people that have died at Voldemort's hand, and it's my fault he came back. I let him come back. I wasn't brave enough to stand up to him. I was terrified and I thought it might be better if I died. I _wanted _him to kill me."

"But you still came back. That was—"

"Hardly brave." Harry scoffed. "Cedric _asked _me to bring his body back. It was what he wanted. I'd only been fighting before because I didn't know what else to do, but for a moment while we were dueling, I _hoped _his curse would reach me. And it would've, if . . ."

"But, Harry, the _Priori Incantatem did _happen. It happened for a reason, and that was _because _you were feeling hopeless. It gave you the drive to escape, and you're here now. We're happy you're here, Harry. We're your friends, and we love you."

Harry looked up at the ceiling, blinking slightly, and said, "I don't think I deserve that."

"It's not something you earn," Hermione insisted. "We don't think you've done anything wrong. You've done what's necessary to survive and what people have asked you to. Which shows you're trustworthy and determined. That's nothing to be ashamed of."

"No, it's not 'trustworthy and determined.' I lied to you, Hermione. Doesn't that upset you at all? Doesn't it prove I'm _not _trustworthy?"

Hermione sighed deeply. "Harry, I think you're thinking about this a bit too much. I would expect you to lie. That's what fear _does. _It makes people lie so they don't have to face the things they're afraid of. It's completely natural and I don't blame you for it."

Harry stood up so suddenly that Hermione nearly fell backwards in surprise, but instead she quickly composed herself and stood along with him.

"I'm not _afraid_," Harry snarled.

"You said you were," Hermione said calmly. "You told me you were afraid."

"I said that I _was _afraid. I'm not anymore."

"I don't believe you."

It was such a simple statement, something that hardly meant anything at all. People had been saying it to him for the past four months, and it hardly had a meaning anymore. They were empty words; they went in one ear and out the other without any kind of processing on the way. But when Hermione said them, with such conviction, it was like she'd slapped Harry, the way she'd slapped Malfoy two years before. It was like she'd turned around and she'd spoken against everything Harry had thought she believed.

"You don't?" Harry said quietly. "You don't believe me?"

"I don't. I think you _are _afraid."

"And if I am? If I am afraid?"

"What does it matter? Fears only matter if you let them control you."

"It's not as if I get a say in that, do I?" Harry growled. "Voldemort already _has _control over me. Why would my fears be any different?"

"Because they're _yours_," Hermione told him softly. "Because they are wholly, entirely yours, and what you do with them is _your _choice. If they take over, that's your choice. If you set them aside, that's your choice. If you bottle everything up, that's your choice. But everything you do will have consequences, and you'll have to face them. How you face them is up to you—just like with your fears.

"Everything needs to be conquered eventually. You'll have to conquer your feelings at some point."

Harry took a deep breath, then put his head in his hands and sat back down, though it was less graceful and more of a stumble.

Hermione softly resumed her place beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I think things will get better."

"They might not." Harry wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "Things might be this bad forever."

"Then face each day thinking it won't be," Hermione suggested. "Take every little thing that life throws at you and learn something from it."

Harry snorted. "Why would I do that if you and your books can teach me so much?"

"I can't teach you _life lessons._" Hermione rolled her eyes. "They're called life lessons because you learn them from _life_."

"How wise," Harry muttered dryly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. But then Hermione asked, "Are you okay?"

Harry wiped at his eyes again, hating the way tears gathered in his eyes. It was just Hermione, though, and Harry had no issues showing emotion before Hermione. He had before, and it wasn't as if she wasn't understanding. In fact, she was like a sister that Harry would never have. He hadn't had a mother figure to raise him, and while Molly had been supportive and loving, it had been Hermione that had _always _seemed to be there. She guessed at what was troubling him with ease and knew him well. Of course, Ron was capable of these things, too, but he was more lofty and carefree than Hermione. Hermione, in some sense, was the mother Harry had never had. She acted rather motherly over he and Ron, and she was always the best person to go to for advice, after all.

"No," Harry answered truthfully. "I'm far from it, really. But you're right. You always seem to be right."

She blushed. "No need for flattery."

"No, but you are! Bottling my emotions didn't help anything. Keeping secrets only wound up hurting me. In the end, I'd _thought _I was protecting the people I loved, but I really wasn't. If anything, I was hurting you, and I'm not proud to say that I lost sight of the things that mattered while I fretted about your safety. You guys have proved time and time again that you can look after yourselves. You were right from the very beginning, and I wasn't ready to face it. I should've trusted you."

Hermione smiled softly, and leaned her head on Harry's shoulder. "It's okay. We don't care about your hesitancies. What matters is getting you to feel a bit better, and that's what we're going to focus on."

"Thank you," Harry whispered.

And they sat there together for a few minutes longer, two friends sitting in the aftermath of unmasked secrets and fears. The air had cleared, and though before him Harry had lain out everything, he hadn't felt so happy in ages. The clear air was fresh in his lungs, the truths singing passionately through his body. This was the moment after the storm when he began to take tentative steps outside to see the destruction. And yet his family was safe, so he was happy. So happy.

There would be more rain. But, eventually, all the clouds would clear away for good. And until that day, Harry would sit and wait, watching intently for the sun's reappearance. He would not submit to the waves around him; he would not submit to his fears.

He would face his fears with everything he had, and he would accept them. It would be okay again, Hermione had told him. He wanted to believe her. He _did _believe her.

_It would be okay again._

**Author's note again**: wow, I'm actually really sorry about that last scene. I've been watching too much Avatar, and that show always makes me feel all deep and spiritual and makes me want to write angsty stuff. Which is all right. Angsty stuff is fun, right? Also, I needed to get across that Hermione's not the bad guy. She made herself out to be a bit silly, but she was genuinely worried about Harry, and they do have such a fantastic platonic relationship I feel needs to be put across. Ron will be shown, too, because he never seems to get enough credit for being a good friend. Right now, I'm focusing on showing Hermione and proving that she's not a bad person and that she loves Harry and supports him. So, I hope this makes her more likeable. If not, my apologies. Tell me what you think of this chapter, though!_  
><em>


	6. Chapter Five: Breaking Point

**Author's note: **wow, I am _so _sorry. I've been having computer issues this last week, been absolutely swamped with homework, and still trying to work on my original fiction, too. I admit, this chapter has been finished for ages, but I honestly just haven't had the time to post. Also, happy late Christmas and New Year! Anyway, on with it, right? My apologies, too, for the shortness and horribleness. I've been a bit blah lately. Sorry. I hope you enjoy.

**Chapter Five: Breaking Point**

"No," James said with finality.

Snape sneered. "I'm afraid it's not your decision."

"Surely Dumbledore could—"

"Unfortunately, the Headmaster has decided it would be best for me to teach him."

"And why would that be?"

"He has his reasons."

James sighed, and Molly looked over at him from where she stood in the corner of the room. Her eyes passed between the two men, and she said quietly, "Would you like me to fetch Harry?"

Snape gave a small nod in her direction and she scurried off. Then, the Potions' Master turned back to James.

Before he could get in a word, though, James said, "Whatever issues you have with me, take them out on me. If I find out you're using these lessons to . . . to bully Harry, then you'll have me to face."

Snape looked him over in an almost disgusted way, but didn't have a chance to respond as Harry walked into the room.

He looked quizzically at Snape, unspeaking.

Harry looked considerably better than he had the week before. Apparently, whatever Hermione had said to him had helped him somehow. He still appeared to be quite sleep-deprived, but his eyes were not as misted as they had been. James knew that Harry was still tormented by nightmares at night, but they hadn't been so bad, it seemed, since Hermione had come.

"Mr. Potter," Snape greeted coolly.

"Professor Snape," Harry acknowledged.

James frowned slightly at Harry's tone. It was terribly monotone and seemed to take a lot of effort for him to get out. Perhaps he wasn't sleeping as well as it had seemed.

"Professor Dumbledore sent me to tell you that he would like for you to partake in Occlumency lessons with me once you return to Hogwarts," Snape said smoothly.

Harry blinked, and for a moment it looked liked he might argue, but then he seemed to sink into himself and he simply nodded.

Snape looked as surprised as James felt, but he covered it up quickly. "Very well, Mr. Potter. We will begin next Monday. Nobody is to know about these lessons. If anybody asks about them, you are to tell them you have remedial potions with me." His sneer was back. "I suspect there would be no more questions, judging on your potion-making abilities."

Harry gave a rather weak glare, but said nothing, instead inclining his head in another stiff nod.

James shot Snape a sharp look, and said, "I'll show you out."

"That won't be necessary. I can find my own way."

Snape turned around, his dramatic black robes sweeping after him. James almost rolled his eyes at the thought of what a drama queen Snape was, but instead forced himself to turn to Harry.

"Do you want me to talk to Dumbledore?"

Harry shook his head. "I doubt he'd change his mind. I'll be fine."

James was rather unconvinced, although he figured that Harry was right about Dumbledore not changing his mind. The old headmaster generally didn't sway on his opinions—especially when it came to Harry. Besides, from what Snape had said, Harry would probably need the lessons, and if Harry wasn't going to complain about his teacher, perhaps it would be better to just allow things to unfold.

Even if, James would still be certain to watch the greasy old bat carefully. He was a lot more civil with Snape these days, but this was still the man that had called Lily a terrible, terrible name. And, frankly, Lily had had a difficult time ever really getting over it, which made seeing Snape all the more worse.

Harry, himself, was a bit in fits over Snape teaching him anything other than their scheduled classes. But he was far too tired to really say that he cared, and, to be honest, he didn't want to draw attention to the fact when Snape already suspected he was an arrogant, fame-loving arsehole. Why give him more reasons?

As he headed back upstairs, Harry realized dully that his head was pounding slightly. If he could, he would just wrap himself in warm blankets and lie in bed for the rest of his life. However, these didn't seem like an overly appropriate option for him, as he still had a mother to avenge and a ridiculous amount of sorting himself out to do.

He opened the door to Ron's room, and noticed three questioning stares looking up at him.

"When did you two get here?" Harry asked tiredly.

Ginny shrugged. "A minute or two ago. Ron said Snape was here. What did he have to say?"

"I have Occlumency lessons, apparently."

Hermione frowned. "Well, that makes sense, but why Snape?"

"I wish I knew." Harry heaved a sigh. "I guess Dumbledore's not available."

"That's really too bad, mate," Ron said, and he sounded genuine. He paused for a second, then asked, "What is Occlumency, exactly? I mean, I know what it is, I just . . ."

"Don't know what it is," Harry supplied helpfully.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but began explaining, anyway: "It's not supposed to be easy, and some people are supposedly better than others. I think it depends on personality types, really. The closed-off person will have a markedly easier time than the more open person. I mean, it would be hard to cancel out your thoughts, wouldn't it?" Hermione looked thoughtful. "Mind you, it would be a good thing to have. If only you have access to your thoughts, then nobody will be able to use them against you."

"How does it work, though?" Ron prompted.

"I don't know," Hermione admitted, looking sheepish. "It's not something that people tend to really . . . explain," she finished lamely, still looking down, her cheeks flushed.

"Wonderful," mumbled Harry. "Sounds like it'll be a lot of fun, Hermione."

"It's not as if I'm trying to reassure you," she said. "I'm laying out the facts, actually!"

"I'd rather the reassurance."

Ginny shook her head grimly. "I'm afraid there's no reassurance to be given."

"I guess I can just hope that Monday comes slowly?" Harry tried for a hopeful tone, but rather thought he failed.

"With your luck," Ron said with a frown, "it probably won't."

No. It probably wouldn't.

* * *

><p>Monday came too fast.<p>

By the time they'd made it back to Hogwarts, hasty good-byes said before they missed the train, Harry was already dreading those lessons. And as Monday's classes drew to a close, he knew that he would rather face anything than a Snape that could easily break into his mind with a single word.

It had been years ago when he'd learned what Occlumency and Legilimency from Remus. Remus had wanted Harry to know everything about magic before he even went to school, because lack of knowledge was not, apparently, a good option. Harry had been eager, of course, and had listened to every word that had been explained to him, and everything about them. Of course, Remus had taught him little of what he would learn at Hogwarts, instead focussing more on the things he wouldn't, which wasn't a lot, but had covered Occlumency and Legilimency.

Harry was personally not fond of the idea at all, and he had no idea how he was supposed to learn something like that. It seemed strange to learn to block people out when he'd been doing it his entire life, but this was a different kind of blocking.

So, now, he stood nervously before Snape, praying that he would not be casting Legilimency or anything. But, as Snape spoke, it seemed Harry's hope was meaningless. How could Snape be a Legilimens? But, really, it was to be expected, wasn't it?

"You may use your wand, Potter, to try and disarm me or protect yourself." Snape was sneering, as he always was, and Harry shakily drew his wand.

What was he doing? He couldn't do this. What if—

But it was too late to back out, Harry realized with a start as he saw a five-year-old Harry being told that he could not go out, that he would have to stay with Sirius and Remus while his father was gone. Snape must have cast the spell, Harry thought, seeing this young version of himself worry aloud if James would leave him the same way Lily had.

And then he was older, ten, by the looks of it, and was listening to his father's quiet muttering, hardly masked tears. It was Halloween, Harry remembered. It had always been like this on Halloween. For years, Harry had never understood why James would not partake in Halloween activities, why Halloween was always so quiet, and then when he was about seven, Sirius had pulled him aside and explained the significance of the day. Since then, Harry had hated Halloween and the way it made everybody in the household so quiet.

And now he was seeing . . . Malfoy? The very same Malfoy from four and a half years ago. The one that had asked him if he was going to Hogwarts, too. The one that he had denied friendship and had regretted sourly for ages. The very same Malfoy that had to have some good in him, somewhere, deep down . . .

Suddenly, Malfoy disappeared and was replaced with green light, which faded to show Cedric. Harry's mouth felt dry, and he realized vaguely that his nightmares that he tried so hard to avoid were becoming more than nighttime happenings.

Then, it stopped, and Harry noticed the cool floor beneath his hands, and that he was on the floor of Snape's office and that he was shaking slightly. He could not do this. He could not.

Harry stood up cautiously, and Snape said something, but there was a loud buzzing everywhere and Harry could hear nothing but his pounding heart through it.

The nightmares. They were around every corner, always there. He could not escape his own foolishness. He was running but it loomed over him, and now it was enveloping him.

". . . Potter," Snape finished, his sneer still firmly in place.

Harry looked up at the ceiling, swaying slightly on his feet. "I'm sorry, sir?"

Something shifted slightly in Snape's expression, but Harry found that even if he had found his voice, it was faint and he felt quite sick. Sick with what, he wasn't sure, but he thought it might be anger. Because, frankly, how was it _fair_? Fair that, not only did he have to deal with the fact that, hidden amongst some of his most intimate memories was Malfoy, but he also had to relive _that _moment _again _when he'd done _everything _to avoid it in the past six months?

And then he knew, without a trace of doubt, that he most certainly was quite angry. So angry that he felt nauseous. He'd felt this type of anger before, and he hated it. He hated it because it was ridiculous to feel ill about something he was angry over, to feel his eyes prickle with tears.

In an uncharacteristically almost caring tone (which was still rather detached and uninterested, but lacking some of the cold), Snape said, "Potter, you look quite ill."

Harry took a deep breath, but all he said was, "I wasn't ready."

And suddenly Snape was back to normal, all sneers and jibes. "I doubt you ever will be."

"I don't think I can do this," Harry said, without really think.

"It is not a matter of 'can' and 'cannot,' Potter," Snape snarled. "It is absolutely necessary if you wish to remain unscathed."

Harry laughed, then; he couldn't stop himself. "Unscathed? _Unscathed_? Don't you think it's a bit late for that, _sir_?" He shook his head. "If you knew exactly what I witnessed, the things I saw, would you still think I was 'unscathed'? Personally, I think that's doubtful, Professor, because I saw a boy that I wanted to be out of harm's way be _killed_! _Murdered right before my own eyes_! And you know what the _best _part of it all is? The best part is that, since then, I haven't had a proper night's rest, because every time I close my eyes, I _see it all again. _Every single moment, and every time, there's something new. It's never anything good, either. And by now I can't even remember if my own mother actually told me she was proud of me!"

He knew he was saying all the things he'd kept bottled up for ages to the last person he wanted to, that he was in absolute hysterics about it, but the words kept tumbling out of his mouth like some sort of sick, twisted waterfall.

"I'm not unscathed, not even physically. I have this scar, which is this constant reminder that my mother is dead, and now I have this one on my arm, which is a constant reminder that I let _another _person die and that it's my fault that everything happened in that graveyard the way it did and now everybody thinks that I made it all up, but why would I make that up if all it's done is _tear me apart_? And now I have you, of all people, in my mind, and you probably saw it, too! That exact moment, the one where he _dropped dead, _the one I've been dreaming about since summer! _Unscathed, you say_? I don't _feel _unscathed! I feel like I've been torn apart, and no matter how often Hermione tries to put me back together again, _it's not working. _Because she _has _tried, and for a few moments, it seemed to work, but then _you _show up, and you make me see that again, and it's _not _okay! Not at all!"

Harry took a deep breath, and as he began to feel calm wash over him, it was replaced immediately by a chill. Did he just tell Snape . . . ?

Oh. Oh, damn it.

Harry opened his mouth, quickly trying to backpedal, but Snape spoke before he had the chance:

"I believe you should see Madam Pomfrey about these issues, Potter." His sneer was there, but it looked off, as if he couldn't bring himself to muster up a proper up one at the moment. Which was odd, Harry thought, because he _sounded _rather disgusted.

Harry swallowed. "No, I mean, sir, I—"

"It was not an invitation, Potter. I highly suspect you are in need of some kind of medical treatment."

Harry went to protest, but he could find no words. What, exactly, did one say in this kind of situation?

Some part of him loathed the idea of getting help. For one, he was independent enough to take care of his own messed up sleeping habits, and, for two, he did not want to become dependant on anything—or anybody. Another part of him, though—the more sensible one, perhaps—kept telling him that he _needed _it. That he needed the help, and, here it was, being handed to him on a silver platter. He should not complain.

But, in the end, the loud independent section of his mind overruled the nagging whispers, and he shook his head at Snape. "I'm fine," he said shakily. "There's no need for worry, sir."

"I'm afraid there is, Potter. See, most people don't tend to . . ." He stopped for a moment, contemplating his words. "Ah . . . let their past traumas control them so much."

"Traumas?" Harry let out a short puff of laughter, although there was nothing funny about the situation. "Sir, I haven't any 'traumas.'"

"Potter," Snape said with a sigh, "do you understand what trauma is? Surely even your small mind can comprehend its meaning?"

"I know what trauma means," Harry said irritably. "I simply said I haven't got any"—he shot Snape a look of hardly concealed disgust—"_sir_."

"Potter," Snape said threateningly, "I will not have this. Do you understand, Potter? I don't care if you refuse, I will _drag _you to the hospital wing until you sort out whatever your issue is and can handle these lessons, perhaps in a manner of the brave little Gryffindor that you've always been."

For a moment, they stared at each other, Snape with his ugly sneer, and Harry with his face as tight as he could make it without it seeming too obvious that he could feel a terrible stinging in the bottom of his throat that could only be identified as oncoming tears. And it wasn't as if he was about to let himself cry in front of Snape, even if he had just told him pretty much every reason why he _should _be crying.

Well, minus the fact that he was insanely gay for Draco Malfoy, but he supposed that little bit of information could stay secret. Preferably forever. Unless, of course, Snape was able to piece together the meaning behind his memories. . . . He almost shuddered at the thought.

"Fine," Harry said, not able to stay so composed any longer.

Snape looked him over oddly. "Very well, Potter. Follow me."

As Snape made his way out the door, Harry hesitated. He would be in infinite trouble if he snuck away now, and Snape would probably catch him rather quickly, anyway. He had gotten himself into this silly mess, and now he would have to dig his way out.

He followed Snape in silence, wiping at his eyes every so often to assure himself that their shine did not break apart into tears. Never had he been so pleased for the earlier darkness of the winter, or the lack of wandering students.

Eventually, they made it there, and Snape pushed him inside a tad bit too forcefully, then made his way around Harry and into Madam Pomfrey's office, where he quietly explained why he was here. Harry strained to hear, but the only thing he properly caught was: "Severus, I cannot heal minds."

And Harry suddenly felt, more intensely now, the urge to run away. Now would be the ideal time, while neither were looking, but as he stood contemplating, Madam Pomfrey and Snape came back out.

"Hello, Harry," Madam Pomfrey said bustling over to him, and inviting him to sit down. "How was your Christmas?"

Harry frowned. "I . . . All right, I guess."

"Professor Snape tells me you don't much like Occlumency."

Harry blinked in bewilderment. "I thought—"

"It's quite all right. I'm very trustworthy, Harry. And nobody expects me to know these kinds of things. You should hear some of the gossip I get in here, anyway. The students aren't all as good at hushed conversation as you and your friends are." She gave him a small wink. "Besides, you're probably a bit too good for remedial potions."

Snape snorted, and Madam Pomfrey shot him a fierce glare that immediately seemed to shut him up. Harry wished he could make the professor stop speaking with a simple look, but he supposed nobody else would probably ever be able to do that. He'd been on the receiving end of Madam Pomfrey's glare before, and he much didn't envy Snape at all.

Harry realized vaguely that both of them were acting very odd around him. He had never seen Snape not look hateful as he looked at Harry, and Madam Pomfrey hardly ever called him by his given or was ever anything more than businesslike. Now, it seemed as though she was making some kind of small talk.

"Anyway, he tells me that the things in your mind seem to be causing you grief. Would you agree?"

"Well, I mean, I guess." Harry had never felt more awkward in his life. It was one thing to talk to people he knew well, who understood how he operated better than perhaps even he did, but it was another altogether to speak to Snape—of all people!—and Madam Pomfrey.

Madam Pomfrey made an odd, strangled noise in the back of her throat, but pressed on. "About Mr. Diggory, I presume?"

"Not . . . entirely." Harry shifted. "I mean, there's always those bits about my mother."

"Your mother?" Madam Promfrey dropped her formal tone for one of surprise. "Goodness, why?"

"Well, I mean, that's my fault . . . isn't it?" His voice was small, as both Madam Promfrey and Snape were giving him strange looks he couldn't quite decipher.

"Good grief," Snape said finally. "What kind of things does your father tell you, Potter?"

Harry looked up, blinking. "What do you mean? He doesn't tell me anything like that. Just the opposite, really. 'Honestly, Harry, don't be daft, your mother would be happy to see you now,'" he mimicked weakly. "But, I mean, it's a bit ridiculous. I'm not daft. If anybody is, it's him, because I heard him tell Remus and Sirius once that it was his fault a long time ago. Because he wasn't there or something, but I don't know what he think she could've done."

"And what about you?" Madam Pomfrey prompted gently.

"It _is _my fault," Harry insisted. "I couldn't have done anything, but if I hadn't been born, she could've just gotten away."

Madam Pomfrey gave him an incredulous look. Finally, shaking her head, she said, "I think your father might be right about you being daft."

"Honestly." Harry sighed. "Can't we just leave it at that? There's nothing wrong with me."

Madam Pomfrey looked him over in disapproval. "I don't know what you think is the definition of 'wrong,' Mr. Potter, but I can assure you that, for me, at least, not sleeping seems to fit under it somewhere."

"It's not affected me _that _badly," he protested.

"I'm afraid I've heard some rather interesting things about you from the teaching staff, Mr. Potter. Your marks seem not agree with that statement."

"Maybe that's for a different reason?" Harry offered.

She stared at him levelly. "I think your issues are all rather connected, Mr. Potter. Frankly, the best thing you can do is talk. And that's not something we can force you to do, but it probably will help." Her eyes softened. "You're only fifteen. This kind of thing pushed on the shoulders of someone with years of experience more than what you've got would probably make them cave under the pressure of it all. We don't want you to cave."

"It didn't seem to matter so much four months ago," Harry said, and he sounded bitter, even to his own ears. "And, if anything, I'm better than I was four months ago. I've learnt how to deal with it by now."

"Nobody knew four months ago."

"I thought it seemed fairly obvious, myself."

"People don't see things unless they're pointed out, often." Madam Pomfrey gave a small, sad smile. "That's our mistake."

"I appreciate your concern, but I really think I should be going." Harry frowned. "It's late, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose it is," Snape cut in cleanly. "Go along, Potter. I'll see you on Wednesday. It seems today's lesson has rather . . . slipped away from us." His sneer was back again. Harry figured it would be odd if it wasn't.

"Yes, sir," Harry muttered, feeling, for probably the first time in his life, grateful for Snape—but that vanished quickly as he remembered whose fault this was, anyway. Turning to face the two staff members, he said, "Good night," as finally as he could, and practically ran from the room.

Already, he was dreading Wednesday.

**Author's note (again): **tell me what you think! I'll be faster with the next update, I promise! We're also venturing into (finally) the romance end of things. I admit that I've been wanting to rush into it and just get on with it, because that's generally what I do when I get excited about relationships, but I'm going to have a nice build-up . . . I hope. Anyway, I love reviews, so please do tell me your thoughts!


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